See No Evil
by Ink Outside the Lines
Summary: Heather Fisk's method for surviving in Hell's Kitchen is simple; keep her head down, and never ask any questions. This is especially true when it comes to her brother, Wilson. It works, until the Devil of Hell's Kitchen arrives on the scene, because he is asking questions; lots of them. And Heather ends up exactly where she doesn't want to be - in the middle of Wilson's mess.
1. Chapter 1

**AN:** General heads up for this fic; it's going to have a pretty heavy OC focus, especially at the beginning, until Heather's presence starts changing up canon events. It's going to be a bit of a snowball effect. The changes will start small, and grow as the story goes on. Hope ya'll enjoy!

* * *

Heather sipped at her glass of wine, letting the chatter and warmth of the restaurant wash over her. She didn't remember anymore whose idea these get togethers had been, but they were a wonderful. Once a month she and a couple old friends from college got together and did something fun; they went to a nice place to eat, to see a play, whatever they were in the mood for that month. It was the perfect way to unwind from their busy lives and catch up with each other.

"Okay," Becky said, leaning forward over the table and pointing with her desert spoon, "we've established that Dominique and Peter are still the perfect couple, yay for them, Maria's new boss is a total jerk but the pay is still worth it, and my family should never ever get together for the holidays. The only one we haven't had life updates from is -" she twirled the spoon dramatically " – Heather!"

Heather set her glass down with a smile. "No major updates on my end. Just same old, same old for me."

"Well that's boring!" Becky declared. "Not seeing anyone new? No hot new teachers at your school?"

"Schools don't usually hire in the middle of the school year," Heather said. "And I'm still single, just like I was when you asked two weeks ago."

Maria reached over and patted Heather's shoulder consolingly. "Don't worry; she keeps asking about my love life too. We're just going to have to put up with it for a few months now that she and Ethan are engaged. It'll die down eventually."

Becky sniffed. "Well excuse me for wanting my friends to be happy!"

"Some of us don't need romance to be happy," Maria replied.

Heather lifted her glass. "I'll toast to that!"

Maria grinned, picking up her glass and clinking it against Heather's. Becky made a face. "Killjoys."

Dominique chuckled, brushing a dark curl back from her face. "You know, I seem to remember a certain someone being very against romance back when I got engaged."

Becky waved a hand dismissively. "That's in the past! I was young and foolish!"

"What, and now you're old and wise?" Maria asked over the rim of her glass, brown eyes sparkling with mirth behind her glasses.

Becky made an offended noise at the word 'old', but before she could respond their waiter arrived with the bill. It was the signal to end their evening. The four friends split the check and made their way outside. Heather pulled her coat tighter around herself as the cold air washed over her.

"Anyone need a ride?" Dominique asked.

"I'll take one!" Becky said. She linked arms with the other woman. "Your car is so much more comfortable than a taxi. And cheaper."

"I'll be fine," Maria said. "I'm going to take the subway."

Heather wished she could take Dominique up on the offer given the cold conditions, but Dominique would be going out of her way to drop Heather off. "I'm good, thanks for the offer though."

"If you're sure," Dominique said. "Talk to you ladies soon!"

They split up, going on their ways. Heather shoved her hands in her coat pockets, walking at a brisk pace down the sidewalk. _Maybe I should grab a taxi._ She lived close enough to the restaurant they'd eaten at that she typically wouldn't even consider it, but with the chill in the air, the thought was tempting. After a moment's contemplation, she shook her head. Even if it was cold, she just didn't feel she could justify the expense for such a short distance.

 _I'll just walk fast._

Easy to do at the moment. Between the late hour and the low temperatures, the sidewalk was very nearly deserted, so Heather didn't have to worry about anyone getting in her way as she was speed walking down the sidewalk. Heather turned down an alley, knowing it'd cut a good five minutes off her walk. She was so focused on getting home quickly, she didn't notice the figure in the shadows until he grabbed her arm.

Heather's startled cry was cut off when he swung her around face first into the brick wall. Tears sprang to her eyes as her head connected with the wall, but she had no time to dwell on the pain as the man spun her around so her back was pressed against the cold brick. Between her tear blurred vision and the dark shadows of the alleyway, Heather couldn't make out much of the man's features. Only a few things about him jumped out at her: big, white, two teeth missing when he snarled down at her. He grabbed her purse and yanked it, but Heather had slung the strap across her body so her hands would be free to shove in her coat pockets, so she stumbled forward with it.

The mugger grabbed the collar of her jacket and shoved her back roughly, knocking her head against the wall again and making Heather cry out in pain. "Shut it, lady," he snapped. "Hand over your purse now!"

Heather's heart pounded and her hands trembled. "Okay, okay!"

"I said shu-"

A shadow landed on the ground behind him, and suddenly the mugger was flying across the alley to slam into the opposite wall. Heather froze, mouth agape. It was another man, this one dressed in all black, including a mask that hid his face. The masked man didn't give the mugger any time to recover, attacking him before he could even get up off the ground. As the mugger let out a startled cry of pain, Heather's adrenaline kicked in, and she sprinted away, out of the alley.

There was no one else on the sidewalk as she ran, or if there was, Heather's panicked mind didn't register them. She ran all the way to her building, and yanked on the door. It rattled but didn't open, and Heather yanked on it again before remembering that she had to scan her keycard to open it. She dug the keycard out of her purse with shaking hands, scanned it, and then dashed into the lobby of her apartment building, the door falling shut behind her.

The sudden warmth of the building's heater soothed some of the blind panic from Heather. She paused, gasping for breath and finally noticing the strain in her limbs and lungs from her sudden extended sprint. _Oh, oh God, I was just attacked._ Tears welled up and spilled over her cheeks. Heather pressed her hands over her mouth to hold back a sob. She walked over the elevator and jabbed the up button. It immediately dinged and the doors slid open. Heather went inside and pressed the button for the fourth floor.

As the doors slid shut, she leaned back against the wall. She played the attack over in her head. It had all been so abrupt, so fast, and Heather had been completely helpless. If that masked man hadn't appeared when he did…if he hadn't saved her, then…

Heather stumbled down her hall, managed to get her door unlocked with trembling hands. Once she was inside, she immediately flipped the lock and slid the deadbolt in place. That done, all her remaining strength left her, and Heather slid down to the floor. The sobs finally broke through, and Heather pressed her face into her knees and cried.

Finally, her tears stopped and Heather raised her head to wipe at her cheeks while she sniffled noisily. She felt exhausted and achy. _What do I do now? Should I call the cops?_ She wasn't sure if there was much of a point; Heather doubted if the mugger would still be around for them to catch, and she didn't think she could give them a good enough description of the mugger to make it worth their time. But Heather didn't know what else to do, so she got her cellphone out and dialed 911.

"911, what's your emergency?" a woman's voice said through the speaker.

Heather had to clear her throat. "Yes, um, I need to report an attack."

"Are you currently safe?" the woman asked.

"Yes," Heather said. "Yes, I'm safe, I got away."

"What's your current location?" the woman asked. "I'll have officers on their way over while I stay on the line with you."

Heather recited her address. "Good, a car is on it's way," the operator told her. "Now, what's your name, miss?"

"Heather," she said. "I'm Heather Fisk."

* * *

Sergeant Brett Mahoney studied the young woman sitting on the couch in front of him. She was dressed nice, in a richly colored sweater, dark jeans, and ankle boots, her scarf and trench coat discarded over the arm of the couch. Her light brown hair had been pinned up, but much of it had fallen out, probably during the attack. Her arms were curled protectively around her torso. Her brown eyes were wide and voice shaky as she recounted her story for them.

Brett kept his voice gentle when he spoke to her. Heather wasn't quite in shock, but she was still clearly frightened after her experience and needed careful handling. "And you have no idea who that masked man might have been?" He doubted she would, but he had to ask, especially given this wasn't the first time in the past few weeks he'd heard someone mention a man in a black mask.

Heather shook her head. "No, sir. Like I said, it was dark and I couldn't see much. And I – I didn't really stick around to find out. Once I had an opening, I just – I just ran." Something like shame flickered over her face at the last word.

"You did the right thing," Brett said firmly. He hated seeing that, people feeling guilty for protecting themselves. He glanced over his notes, trying to see if there was anything else he needed to ask her or to clarify. There wasn't, so he closed the notebook and slipped it in his pocket. "We'll check out the alley you told us about," he said, "see what we can find." He hesitated just a moment before adding, "Ms. Fisk, do you have family in the area? Maybe someone you can stay with tonight? You're not in any danger, but sometimes after an incident like this it can help to be around other people."

"My brother," she said. She bit her lip and looked at the clock hanging on the wall. The hours were edging into early morning. "It's so late, though, I hate to call him now."

"I don't know your brother," Brett said, "but if I had a sister who'd almost been mugged, I wouldn't care what time it was when she called me. In fact, I'd probably be more upset if she didn't."

Tears brimmed in Heather's eyes, but she blinked them back and offered up a wobbly smile. "That does kind of sound like Wilson, actually. I'll give him a call."

"Good," Brett said. He and his partner – Eddie Phelps – said their goodbyes, and left Heather's apartment.

"I wish people would figure out they shouldn't walk down alleys at night," Eddie grumbled as they climbed into their car. "This is Hell's Kitchen. Anyone with common sense should know that isn't safe."

"It should be," Brett said. No one should have to fear being attacked on their way home, regardless of the time of day.

"Doesn't matter," Eddie shot back. "Reality is what it is, and people should know that by now."

Brett and Eddie had had this discussion more than once, and he didn't feel like engaging in it again tonight, so he didn't say anything as he parked next to the alley where Heather had been attacked.

"Waste of our time to come out here," Eddie muttered. It probably was, but they still had to look.

Brett pulled out his flashlight and clicked it on as they walked down the alley, shining it on the ground as they went. "What are the chances of more than one person running around in a black mask?"

Eddie snorted. "I'd say slim. I'm thinking we've got a vigilante on our hands."

Brett nodded. That's what he'd been thinking too. First, it had been a couple of bottom rung thugs from the Russian mob that had a foot in Hell's Kitchen, found bloodied and broken and claiming a man in a mask had attacked them. Then there was a woman whose boyfriend had decided not to take no for an answer, and she'd screamed in the alley he'd dragged her into and the man in the black mask had showed up. Now there was this.

Once could be chance. Twice, coincidence. But three times? Three was a pattern.

An odd lump caught his eye, and Brett shown his light in that direction, letting out a curse at what it revealed.

It was a man, sprawled out on the ground, his face beaten and bloody. Brett hurried over to him, relieved to find that he was still breathing. Eddie radioed for an ambulance. "Think that's Heather's mugger?" he asked once he was done.

"That'd be my guess," Brett said grimly. Now that he was closer, it was clear that the man had more injuries than just those on his face. "Looks like our masked man worked him over good."

"Can't say as I feel sorry for him," Eddie said.

Brett didn't really feel sorry for him either. Anyone who'd attack a helpless person _deserved_ to get beat. But Brett was worried. Based on what he'd seen of the vigilante's work so far, the guy had training. He was also, judging by the extent of the injuries he'd left in his wake, very angry. Had to be, to inflict the kind of damage that he did.

Trained, angry, and willing to work outside the law. It was a recipe for disaster. So far, he'd only targeted criminals, and he hadn't left anyone dead. But for someone with that much pent up rage? _It's only a matter of time._

* * *

The ringing of his phone woke Wilson, and irritation flickered through him. It vanished immediately though once he picked it up and saw who was calling. Heather never called him at this time of night. Something must be wrong.

Wilson sat up in bed as he answered the phone. "Heather, are you alright?"

"I'm fine," she said, but Wilson could hear a tremor in her voice. "I'm sorry for calling so late. I must have woken you up."

"You never need to apologize for calling me," Wilson said. "You know that. What do you need?"

"Um, well, I was wondering, I mean, I was." She stopped. Took a breath. "Someone tried to mug me."

Wilson was still. "Are you alright?" he asked again, keeping his voice quiet and controlled.

"I am," she said. "I not hurt. I – not really. I got away. I've already talked to the cops too. I just, I think I'd feel better if maybe I could stay at your place tonight."

"Of course," Wilson said. He was already getting out of bed, heading for his closet. "I'll be over to pick you up in half an hour."

"Thank you, Wilson," Heather said, her voice soft and vulnerable. "I'll see you soon. Love you."

"I love you too," Wilson said. As soon as they hung up, Wilson called Wesley.

"Sir, what can I do for you?"

"Someone attacked Heather," Wilson said, allowing the anger that was boiling inside to show in his voice. The thought of some thug laying hands on Heather, of causing the fear he'd heard in her voice, it burned at Wilson. If he could get in the same room as the man who'd done it, Wilson would rip him apart with his bare hands.

But now wasn't the moment to give in to his anger. Heather needed him.

"Is she alright, sir?" Wesley asked, genuine concern in his voice.

"She will be fine," Wilson said. He dressed as he spoke. "I'm bringing her here for the night. She said she spoke to the police already. I want to know what she told them, and if they have any leads on who might have attacked her. I want him found, Wesley."

"Of course, sir," Wesley said. "I'll take care of it."

Once dressed, Wilson called for his driver, and soon he was one his way to the building Heather lived in. She must have been waiting for him in the lobby, because as soon as his car pulled up she opened the door of the building and jogged towards the vehicle, a small overnight bag in hand.

Wilson reached over and opened the door for her as she got close, and Heather climbed into the backseat, dropping her bag at her feet. "Are you alright?" Wilson asked again as she buckled in.

She smiled at him, but the expression was strained. "I'm okay, Wilson, really."

Wilson studied her. She didn't seem to be injured. Or at least, she had no scrapes or bruises that he could see. As bundled up as she was under a coat, scarf, jeans, and boots, that didn't really mean much.

"Tell me what happened," he said.

Heather recounted the story for him, keeping it brief. "I hope – I hope that masked man didn't get hurt trying to help me," Heather said at the end. She bit her lip and her brows furrowed together. "Maybe I should have stayed, seen if he needed help."

"Of course not," Wilson objected. "That would have only put you at further risk. Running away was the right thing to do. Besides, from what you've told me I doubt he gave the mugger a chance to do him harm."

She didn't look convinced, but she nodded anyway. "I guess you're right." Heather sighed. "I wish there was some way I could thank him." She shivered, rubbing at her arms. "I don't even want to think about what might have happened if he hadn't shown up when he did."

Wilson didn't want to think about it either, but he did. Heather could have been seriously injured tonight. She could have been killed. He made a mental note to tell Wesley to find the masked man. He owed him for saving Heather's life, and Wilson Fisk always paid his debts.


	2. Chapter 2

Heather stretched in the bed, enjoying the ability to properly do so. _I should get a queen._ She always had the same thought whenever she stayed with Wilson, but then she'd go home to her apartment, observe the size of her bedroom, and decide to stick with her twin bed instead. A queen just wouldn't leave enough space to be worth it. But oh, she did enjoy the chance to sleep in one.

She blinked her eyes open and noted the amount of sunlight coming through the curtains. She'd slept in much later than she normally let herself, but considering what had happened the night before, Heather felt the indulgence was warranted. She sat up and ran her fingers through her hair, wincing as they brushed over the small but tender knot on the back of her head where the would-be mugger had shoved her into the wall.

 _If that's the worst I have to worry about, I should count myself lucky._

Heather took her time getting ready for the day, lingering in the shower, taking time with her hair and makeup after. Once dressed, she went ahead and repacked everything in her bag and made up the bed she'd used. She knew Wilson would insist on her staying for breakfast – well, brunch at this point – but after that she'd need to go ahead and head home. Tomorrow was Monday, and Heather had things she needed to do to get ready for work.

She left the guest room and made her way to the kitchen, where she wasn't surprised to find Wilson already up and dressed, sitting at the table and reading through the newspaper. He looked up when she entered. "How are you feeling?"

"Much better this morning," Heather answered honestly. She didn't mention the bump on the back of her head. It would only upset him to know about it, and there was no point in upsetting him when there wasn't anything he could do.

There was coffee in the coffee pot already, and Heather made a beeline for it. As she poured herself a cup, she noticed a box of bagels from her favorite bakery. "Oh, Wilson, you didn't have to do that."

"I'd think today of all days, I could spoil you without you complaining," Wilson said.

Heather huffed a little, going to the fridge to get creamer for her coffee and cream cheese for her bagels. "You always try to spoil me," she pointed out. She was fairly certain it was partially because of their age difference. Wilson had been ten when Heather was born.

" _That boy fell in love with you right there in the delivery room,"_ her mother used to say fondly. _"One would have thought you were the most precious baby in the whole world, the way he treated you."_ This was usually followed by her ruffling Heather's hair and adding with a wink, _"Willy was right, of course."_

"And you rarely let me," Wilson replied.

Heather shrugged and took a bite of her bagel. It was no longer warm, but it was soft enough that she knew they must have been made that morning. _Heavenly._ She carried her plate and cup to the table and sat down across from Wilson.

Wilson folded up the newspaper and set it aside. "Heather," he said, "I have been thinking this morning. After the events of last night, perhaps you should look into moving."

She was shaking her head before he'd even finished speaking. "We've had this talk before, Wilson. I like where I'm at, and it's not a bad part of town."

"It's not the best either, as last night clearly shows." His brows drew down as he spoke.

"Last night was a fluke," Heather said. "I've walked down that same alley a million times and nothing bad ever happened. It was just wrong place, wrong time. Besides, I can't afford to live in a nicer area. And before you say it, _no_ , I'm not going to let you rent me a different apartment."

He'd suggested the option before, and Heather always turned it down. She knew Wilson was rich enough that he could easily afford it. He could afford to pay for anything she could possibly want, and he'd be willing to do it if Heather asked. Wilson had always been generous with her. But Heather wasn't comfortable with the idea of living off of Wilson's money. She'd earn her own way.

Wilson sighed, apparently recognizing that this argument at least was a lost cause. "If you aren't open to moving," he said, "would you at least consider allowing me to hire some security for you?"

Heather paused in the act of raising her coffee to her lips. "You want to hire a bodyguard for me?"

"Yes," he said simply.

"Wilson," she groaned, "I don't need a bodyguard!"

"You could have used one last night," Wilson said. He rested his arms on the table, lacing his fingers together. "If that man in the mask hadn't been there, you could have been seriously injured, Heather. Please, even if you feel like you don't need one, at least consider it for my own peace of mind."

She took another bite of her bagel and chewed slowly. She still didn't like the idea. The night before had just been bad luck. She didn't need someone following her around all the time. But she didn't want to argue with Wilson, not today. "I'll think about it," she finally said. She held up a hand to point at him. "But I'm only thinking about it. That's not a yes."

"Very well," he said with a nod.

Heather's ringtone went off with the particular chirpy tune she'd set to let her know that it was an unsaved number calling. She quickly hopped out of her seat to get her phone, glad for an excuse to walk away from the conversation about getting her a bodyguard. She'd left it back in the room she'd slept in.

"Hello?"

"Is this Ms. Fisk?" a man's voice asked. It was familiar, but she couldn't place it immediately.

"It is," she answered.

"This is Sergeant Mahoney," the man identified himself. Heather recognized the name in an instant, bringing to mind the image of the black police officer who'd responded to her call and been so kind to her the night before.

"Yes, of course," she said. "What can I do for you, Sergeant Mahoney?"

"I wanted to let you know that we caught the man who attacked you last night."

Surprise flashed through her, followed by a relief so great it made her knees weak. Heather sank down onto the edge of the bed. "You did?"

"Yes. He was still in the alleyway when my partner and I checked it out last night. I waited for him to wake up to confirm his identity before calling you."

Heather absorbed the implications of those words for a moment. The man in the mask must have beaten the mugger into unconsciousness if he'd still been there for the police to find him. She swallowed, a little unnerved by the idea of that level of violence, but mostly relieved to know that the mugger wouldn't be able to attack her or anyone else again.

"I appreciate you letting me know," Heather said. An alarming thought occurred to her and she asked, "You don't need me to come in and identify him, do you?" The attack wasn't enough to make her want to move, or want a bodyguard like Wilson suggested, but Heather wasn't really prepared to come face to face with her attacker again.

"No ma'am," Sergeant Mahoney said, quick to reassure her. "We got a confession, so that won't be necessary. But there is some paperwork that needs to be taken care of, if you could come down to the station today. Shouldn't take more than a few minutes of your time."

Heather's heart slowed back down. She could handle paperwork. "Okay, yeah, I can definitely do that."

"Great," Sergeant Mahoney said. "When you get here, just ask whoever is at the desk for me."

"Alright, I guess I'll be seeing you soon then," Heather said awkwardly.

"See you soon," Sergeant Mahoney said, what sounded like a laugh in his voice.

Heather hit the end call button and let out a long breath. _They got him._ And if the mugger had been in that bad of shape, then that meant the man in the mask was probably okay. That thought was a relief too. Heather hated the idea of someone getting hurt trying to help her.

She stood, slipping her phone into the back pocket of her jeans and picking up her purse and overnight bag. She figured she may as well head on down to the station and get this taken care of now. Heather knew herself well enough to know that when she made it back to her apartment, she wasn't going to want to leave for the rest of the day.

Wilson was at the sink rinsing off her dishes, and Heather felt a flicker of guilt. She'd have taken care of them if he'd waited. "That was Sergeant Mahoney on the phone," she told him. That had Wilson's instant attention. "He said they caught the guy that tried to mug me. I need to head to the station for some paperwork."

"I can come with you," Wilson offered, but Heather shook her head.

"Thanks, but I can handle this. It's just some paperwork." His phone started buzzing on the counter, and Wilson looked down at it with a distracted frown. "Looks like you're about to be busy anyway."

"Then I'll have my driver take you," Wilson said. "I won't take no for an answer on that one, Heather."

"Okay, I'll give you that one," Heather said. She flashed a teasing grin. "But only this once."

His face softened. "Of course."

Once she was ensconced in the car and on her way to the police station, it occurred to Heather that she hadn't told her friends yet about what had happened. She bit her lip, wondering if she could just not mention it. They'd kick up a worried fuss, and Wilson did that enough on his own. Heather didn't want more people fussing over her. She wanted to just put the incident behind her and forget it had happened. But if she didn't tell them, and they somehow found out about it later, they'd be even more upset. Better to just head it off now and get it over with.

Heather pulled out her phone and sent out a text in the group chat that she, Dominique, Becky, and Maria kept running.

 **I'm OKAY but a guy tried to mug me on my way home last night. I'M OKAY. The police have him I'm on my way to the station to fill out some paperwork. - H**

The response was near immediate, all of them wanting to know what had happened, was she really okay, and why was she only just telling them this now?

Heather summed up the events of the previous night in as few words as she could manage, again assuring them that she was just fine.

 **Thank goodness mask dude was there! Hope he left that jerk with some broken bones . - B**

 **Next time I offer you a ride you're taking it! No one walks home anymore! – D**

 **Do you need anything? I can come stay with you tonight if you want – M**

Heather smiled a little at their responses. Much as she didn't want them to fuss over her, their concern still warmed her.

 **I'm fine don't need anything. I'll keep you all updated. – H**

"We're here, Ms. Fisk," the driver said.

Heather looked up from her phone to see that they had indeed arrived at the police station. "Thank you. I shouldn't be long."

She got out of the car and headed for the front door of the police station. Inside, the building was fairly busy. There was someone already speaking to the desk sergeant, so Heather waited patiently in line for them to finish. Once it was her turn, she approached the desk and said, "Um, hi. I'm here to see Sergeant Mahoney. I'm Heather Fisk; he's expecting me."

"Sure thing, Ms. Fisk," the desk sergeant said. "I'll let him know you're here, if you'll just have a seat."

Heather took a seat on the bench up against the wall, tapping her foot as she waited. It felt like forever, but eventually she saw Sergeant Mahoney coming and she stood to greet him.

"Sorry for making you wait," he said, holding out a hand to shake. "It's been a little crazy here today."

"It's no problem," she assured him, taking his hand. The handshake was firm but brief, and then he was leading her back to his desk.

"Like I said on the phone, this shouldn't take too long."

He was right; he walked her through the forms she needed, and in about ten minutes they were done. "Okay, you're all set."

Heather gathered up her purse, but hesitated before she stood. "Um, Sergeant Mahoney, when you went back to the alley, did you…did you seen any evidence about the man in mask?"

He shook his head. "Nope. He was long gone by the time we got there." Sergeant Mahoney paused for a second, looking as though he was considering whether or not to mention the next part. "He did end up having a busy night though. Couple hours after your incident, three women showed up, saying a man in a black mask saved them from traffickers."

She felt her eyes widen at the news. "Seriously?"

Sergeant Mahoney nodded. "Yep."

"Wow," Heather said.

He frowned. "That's one word for it."

"You don't sound too happy about it," Heather noted, wondering why.

"Don't get me wrong," Sergeant Mahoney said holding up his hands. "I'm glad he saved you, and those other women. But vigilantes can be unpredictable. We have laws for a reason, and vigilantes work outside of that. There's always a big risk that one day they'll cross a line they shouldn't, or that they'll bite off more than they can chew and get bystanders hurt."

"I suppose," Heather said. She wasn't sure she agreed with Sergeant Mahoney's assessment. The man in the mask had saved her last night, and then gone on to save three other women, all at personal risk to himself. The way she saw it, his actions were to be commended, not looked upon with suspicion. She didn't really want to get into a debate about it though, so Heather let it go.

Sergeant Mahoney escorted her back to the entrance. "You still doing okay?" he asked her. His question seemed genuine, rather than just professional small talk.

"I am," Heather said. "I took your advice, and stayed with my brother last night. And you guys caught the mugger, so um, I'm good."

"Glad to hear it." Sergeant Mahoney smiled at her. "You take care of yourself, Ms. Fisk."

"I will," Heather said. She waved goodbye at him looking over her shoulder as she reached for the door. Someone on the other side chose that moment to pull it open, and when her hand didn't meet the resistance she expected, she stumbled forward into the person with a surprised 'oof'.

"Sorry," she said, taking a hasty step back as she looked at the man she'd bumped into. He was tall, his smile charming, though his eyes were hidden behind dark, round sunglasses. He didn't quite look at her as he spoke, his gaze seeming to go somewhere over her right shoulder.

"My fault, I'm sure," he said.

"I'd say so," another man that Heather hadn't noticed right away added. He was slightly shorter than the first, with shaggy blond hair, and an expressive face as he sighed and shook his head. "I've told you to let me handle the doors so we can avoid this very scenario."

Heather was momentarily confused by the second man's statement, until her brain finally registered the distinctive white cane in the first man's hand. Heat suffused her face as Heather realized she'd just walked into a blind man.

"No, I should have been paying attention," Heather said. "I'm so sorry."

Before either of them could respond, Sergeant Mahoney's voice cut through the conversation. "Foggy, are you and your partner just going to stand there letting the heat out all day, or are you going to let the lady leave?"

"We're coming in!" the blond man – presumably Foggy – said. "Come on, Matt, before Brett gets too cranky."

Heather moved out of their way so they could come in, and the blind man – Matt – smiled in her general direction. "Have a nice day, miss."

"You too," Heather answered automatically. Her face was still hot from the awkward encounter. She made a beeline for the door, then went down the steps and to the car. The driver saw her coming, and got out of the vehicle to hold the door open for her.

"Where to now, Ms. Fisk?" he asked as she slid into the backseat.

"Home, please," she said. There she could throw herself into her preparations for the next day's lessons, and hopefully just forget about the previous night's events.

* * *

 _That might have been a little mean of me,_ Matt thought ruefully as he listened to Ms. Fisk leave the station. Certainly, it hadn't been his intention to embarrass her, though if he'd thought it through he'd have realized that of course she'd be embarrassed about bumping into him. But when he'd recognized her, he hadn't been able to resist. He'd never actually met someone after saving them, and he'd wanted a chance to make sure she was alright.

She seemed to be, so far as he could tell. He'd noticed a small bump on the back of her head, but that was her only injury. She'd been calm – before bumping into him and dealing with the subsequent embarrassment. She'd eaten that morning: coffee and a bagel with cream cheese. He hoped her relative calm and the fact that she'd taken time to eat meant she was doing okay emotionally. She'd been understandably terrified the night before.

"Uh, hello, earth to Matt. You still with me?"

"Sorry, Foggy," Matt said, realizing his friend had been speaking to him. "What was that?"

Foggy let out a heavy sigh. "You can't get this distracted just because a pretty woman bumped into you. We're about to meet our first client! Hopefully. If she hires us."

"She was pretty?" Matt asked innocently. He grinned when the question elicited the groan he was hoping for. "Alright, I'm here, I'm focused."

Pleased as he'd been to run into Ms. Fisk, she wasn't the woman he'd come to see. No, he was there for one Karen Page; a woman standing accused of murder. _Let's see what we've got now._

* * *

 **AN:** So we get a look at Heather and Wilson's relationship, Heather and Matt meet each other (sort of), and most importantly, Matt hears her name! A big thank you to those of you that have reviewed/followed/favorited. I hope you'll continue to enjoy this story :)


	3. Chapter 3

Heather kicked off her shoes with a happy sigh Monday afternoon. The school day had gone well, and settling back into the familiar routine helped relieve stress of the weekend. Plus, since none of her coworkers knew about the incident, she hadn't had to fend off repeated inquires about whether she was doing okay.

She flipped her TV on for some background noise as she went about her afternoon routine, changing out of her work clothes into more comfortable sweatpants and sweatshirt and turning on her coffee maker. She could see her TV from her kitchen, and Heather glanced over at the screen while waiting for her coffee to be ready.

"…embezzlement of millions of dollars from their pension plans. It was the work John McClintock, the head of Union Allied's finance department. When authorities went to McClintock's home today to arrest him, they found him dead from a drug overdose."

Heather frowned at the depressing story. How many people had lost their whole retirement because of this man's schemes? How many people were frightened for their futures?

She shook her head. "Don't know why I ever put the news on. It's always sad." Heather changed the channel, flipping through until she landed on a show about couples looking for new houses. Her coffee maker beeped, letting her know it was done. Heather poured herself a cup, adding liberal amounts of sugar and creamer.

Her phone went off with the tune she'd set for Wilson's ringtone. Heather paused, staring at her phone as she debated whether to answer it. He was sure to bring up the idea of hiring her a bodyguard again, and she didn't really want to have the discussion with him since she knew it was going to end with her telling him no.

Heather groaned and reached for the phone. If she didn't answer he'd probably get worried and send someone to check on her. _Might as well get it over with._

"Hey, Wilson," she answered.

"Good afternoon, Heather," Wilson said. She smiled at his formality and leaned against her counter. "How was your day?"

"It was good," she said. "School went well. For once none of my students are sick, which is a pretty big miracle for this time of year."

"That's good," he said. He paused for a moment, and Heather waited for what she knew was coming. "I was wondering if you had thought any about my suggestion of a bodyguard?"

Heather scuffed her toes on the laminate floor. "I have, yes. And I was thinking, you know, I've only ever been attacked once in twenty-seven years, and I think that's a good enough track record to not need a bodyguard."

"Heather," Wilson said, and Heather groaned.

"Wilson, please," she said. "I know you worry about me, but I really don't need a bodyguard. And I don't like the idea of someone following me around all the time anyway."

It was Wilson's turn to sigh. "Very well, Heather. You know I'd never want to make you uncomfortable. I just want you to be safe."

"I know," she said. "And I am safe, I promise. If it makes you feel better, I promise I won't walk home in the dark anymore. I'll take the subway, or get a cab or something."

"It will have to do as a compromise," Wilson said. "I need to go, but make sure you take good care of yourself."

"I always do," Heather said. "Love you."

"I love you too."

She hung up the phone and let her shoulders slump in relief. "There we go. That wasn't so bad." Heather set her phone aside and picked up the coffee. She took it to the couch where she already had the materials out that she needed to finalize her lesson plans for the next day. Once that task was done, it was time to cook dinner. She kept it simple, fixing a small salad and reheating some leftover spaghetti. After eating she rinsed her dishes and left them in the sink, promising herself that she'd definitely wash them and put them away before she went to bed.

There was a knock on her door, and Heather lifted her head in surprise. She wasn't expecting any visitors. She went to her door and peered through the peephole to see Maria waiting on the other side. Heather immediately opened the door. Maria flashed a bright smile. "Hey, Heather! I was in the neighborhood, so I thought I'd stop by and say hi. Hope you don't mind."

"Of course not," Heather said. "Come on in."

Maria followed her inside, shrugging off her trench coat as she did. It looked like she had come straight from work, based on the gray pencil skirt and teal sweater Maria was wearing.

"Would you like anything to drink?" Heather offered.

"I'll take anything hot right now," Maria said, rubbing her hands together. "It's freezing outside today."

"Coffee it is, then," Heather said. Maria followed her into the kitchen, hopping up to sit on the counter while Heather got the coffee on. "So, what brings you to my neck of the woods?" Heather asked. "Last I checked, the Landman and Zach building wasn't exactly close by."

"Oh, you know," Maria said, gesturing with one hand. "Paralegaling stuff."

Heather tilted her head slightly, looking up at Maria with what her friends had dubbed as the 'teacher look.' Maria held out for about ten seconds.

"Okay, _fine,_ " she said. "Dominique, Becky, and I decided one of us should check on you in person to make sure that you're actually okay."

"I told you I was fine!" Heather protested.

"Yeah, well, remember that time back in sophomore year of college," Maria started, and Heather groaned, knowing exactly what was coming, "and you were in that car accident? And you told us you were definitely fine? Except you actually had a broken arm which we didn't find out until you got back to the dorms that night?"

"I was fine!" Heather said. "Broken arms aren't exactly life threatening."

Maria pointed at her. "You see, that right there is why no one trusts your definition of fine. You think as long as you're not actively dying you're okay."

The coffee was ready, so Heather poured a cup and handed it to Maria before pouring herself another. She added liberal amounts of creamer to her own. "Well as you can clearly see, I actually am fine. No broken bones or terrible injuries."

"You do seem physically okay, which is great news," Maria said, "but…" She paused for a second, then continued softly. "Heather, are you _okay_? Getting attacked like that would be terrifying to me."

Heather sipped her coffee, kind of wishing Maria hadn't brought this part up. "It was." It had been the most terrifying moment of her whole life. She took a deep breath. "But I'm okay. The masked man saved me, and the police have the guy, so it's over. There's nothing to be scared of anymore."

Maria watched her without saying anything for a minute, but eventually she nodded. "Okay." She blew on her coffee and took a sip. "Wish we could find that masked man somehow. Guy deserves a proper thank you for saving you."

"Yeah, that was pretty amazing that he'd do that," Heather said. "I think we're going to end up hearing more about him, though."

Maria lifted her eyebrows. "Yeah? You don't think this was a onetime thing?"

Heather shook her head. "Nope. When I went to the police station yesterday, the officer mentioned that the masked man saved three other women from traffickers the same night he saved me. Sounds to me like Hell's Kitchen is getting a vigilante."

"Well cheers to that!" Maria said with a grin. "We could use some extra help around here!"

Heather smiled at her enthusiastic response. "Yeah, that's kind of my thoughts on the matter. Though I don't think the police are quite as thrilled as we are."

Maria snorted at that. "If they didn't want vigilantes popping up, they should be better at their jobs." She downed the rest of her coffee and set the mug aside before hopping off the counter. "Ugh, I wish I could stay longer, but I have to run some errands before I go home, and I still haven't eaten anything, so I've got to run. But remember, if you need anything, just tell us, okay? We're your friends, Heather. It's not bothering us if you need help."

"I know," Heather said. "Thank you. I'm really fine though."

Maria threw her arms around Heather's neck in a hug. "I'm glad. I'll see you later, girl, okay?"

Heather returned the hug with one arm, her coffee mug still in her other hand. "Later."

As Maria grabbed up her coat, she called over her shoulder, "Hey, you know, on the bright side, I think you've already used up your allotment of bad luck this week. That means things can only get better!"

Heather smiled and shook her head. "I hope you're right about that."

* * *

Principal Evans was waiting for Heather when she arrived at work Tuesday morning, his wrinkled face set in a worried expression. Heather's stomach dropped. Something bad must have happened.

"I need to speak with you in my office right away," he told her.

"Of course," she said. Heather followed him down the quiet hall. It was early enough that students hadn't started arriving yet, but soon they would, and then the halls would be bustling and full of noise. Principal Evans led her to his office, and Heather took one of the chairs in front of his large desk.

"Have you seen the news this morning?" he asked.

Heather shook her head. "No, I didn't have it on."

"Then you haven't heard," Principal Evans said. "Last night Jason Holloway was kidnapped."

It felt like someone had knocked the air from her lungs. Jason was one of Heather's students. He was a sweet boy; the only thing she'd ever really had to correct him for was drawing when he should have been doing schoolwork. The idea of someone kidnapping him, possibly hurting him, it was unthinkable.

"What happened?" she asked faintly.

"He was off with his father last night," Principal Evans said, "when some men attacked his father and dragged Jason off. Mr. Holloway will be okay, but he had to spend the night in the hospital."

Heather pressed a hand to her chest. "That's awful. How could anyone do something like that?" Jason had to be terrified. To see his father hurt, and then be dragged off by strange, violent men? It was a nightmare scenario.

Principal Evans shook his head, his dark eyes tired. "I don't know. The evil that exists in this world sometimes…" He shook his head and collected himself. "Obviously, this doesn't need to be discussed among the students. We don't want any of them frightened. But since it was on the news this morning, it's possible that some of them may have heard about the situation already."

Heather nodded. "Of course. I'll listen out for anything they might say."

She felt like she was in a daze as she went to her classroom. She kept picturing Jason's sweet, smiling face from the day before as he'd excitedly showed her a new picture he'd finished. To think that he'd been kidnapped, that his life was in danger at this very moment, and all Heather could do was wait and listen and hope he'd be okay…it was maddening.

Heather blinked back tears from her eyes, took a steadying breath as she set her things down on her desk. "Keep it together," she whispered. Jason wasn't her only student. The others would be arriving soon, and they didn't know Jason was in danger, didn't need to know. They'd be expecting a normal, happy school day, and it was Heather's job to give that to them, regardless of how she was feeling. So, she took a few more deep breaths, pasted a smile on her face, and got to work.

That evening, once she was home from work, Heather was glued to the TV, listening for any bit of news about Jason. Unfortunately, there wasn't much. Just a brief update that police were still looking for him, but they currently had no leads. Still, Heather kept the news on as she made dinner, while she cleaned her kitchen, then stress cleaned her living room, then started reorganizing her bookshelves – which really only served to scatter piles of books across her newly cleaned living room.

Still, she had to keep busy doing _something,_ or she'd go crazy worrying about Jason. Wednesday went much the same way; Heather kept a calm, happy face for her students, pretending everything was normal, and quietly stressed at home with the news on after school. Thursday started the same, until lunch. Heather eating her lunch in her classroom, unable to handle eating with the other teachers that day. She didn't want to hear them talking about Jason in hushed whispers like they had the day before. While she was eating, Principal Evans came to her room.

"They found him," he said simply.

Heather immediately set her food aside. "Is he okay?"

Principal Evans nodded, a tired smile breaking out on his face. "He is. I spoke to his mother a few minutes ago. She said that he isn't hurt; he won't be coming back to school until next week at the earliest though."

That was fine; Heather didn't care how long it took Jason to come back to school, as long as he was safe. Tears of relief sprang to her eyes and she blinked them back. "Thank God the police found him."

"Actually, it seems it wasn't the police," Principal Evans said. "Mrs. Holloway says that Jason told them a masked man saved him."

Heather's breath caught. A masked man? What were the chances of two masked men running around Hell's Kitchen saving people? _It has to be him._ The masked man had saved her, and now one of her students, and Heather wished more than ever that there was something she could do to thank him. Thanks probably didn't matter to him, given he did the things he did while wearing a mask, but still.

"Then Jason was very fortunate," Heather said. "Thank you so much for keeping me updated."

The afternoon lessons were a blur for Heather, and for once she didn't stick around after the school day ended, packing up what she needed and immediately heading out. She was able to keep it together until she got back to her apartment. Once there, Heather went straight to her bedroom, flopped down on her bed, and let the tears of relief that she'd been holding in slip down her face.

 _Jason is safe, he's safe!_

And they had the masked man to thank.

* * *

This week had been one inconvenience after another for Wesley. First the Union Allied mess, which had left more dead bodies in its wake than was ideal, discovering that the masked man who'd saved Heather was also the masked man that was interfering with the Russians, and now he received word that Healy had been arrested after killing Prohaszka. He could certainly handle the mess with Healy, but it shouldn't have been necessary. About the only thing that had gone right this week was arranging for the death of the mugger that had attacked Heather. Even then, that hadn't gone quite as Mr. Fisk would have wished; the mugger's death had been too swift.

It was time to make his report to Mr. Fisk. Wesley called him, waiting patiently for him to answer the phone. "Wesley," Mr. Fisk greeted. "What news do you have for me?"

"Healy was arrested after taking care of Prohaszka," Wesley said. "I will have our lawyers take care of the matter tomorrow."

"No," Mr. Fisk said, "don't use our usual lawyers. Hire those two from the Union Allied incident, Nelson and Murdock. I want to see how they perform."

"Very well, sir," Wesley said.

"Any updates from Heather's detail?" Mr. Fisk asked.

"Nothing of note, sir," Wesley said. This report was a new addition to the usual updates that Wesley provided. When Heather had refused Mr. Fisk's offer of a bodyguard, he'd had Wesley assign a detail for her protection. Wesley had been careful with this assignment, choosing men that were loyal and discreet. Heather hadn't noticed them following her yet, and Wesley doubted that she would. "She went to work then home again. She didn't leave her apartment after getting back today. No suspicious activity near her building."

"Good," Mr. Fisk said. "Thank you, Wesley. I trust you will take care of these matters."

"Of course, sir," Wesley said. "Have a good evening."

* * *

 **AN:** For those of you wanting more Matt POV, he's going to feature pretty heavily in the next chapter, so fear not :) And thanks again to everyone supporting this story. I'm having fun writing it, so I'm glad others are enjoying it too!


	4. Chapter 4

Matt crouched on the fire escape, waiting for Healy to exit the building. Nothing about Healy's trial over the past few days had gone the way he'd wanted; he hadn't been able to find out the who the employer of the man who'd hired him and Foggy to represent Healy was, or even the name of the man who'd hired them for that matter, and Healy was getting to walk, despite being obviously guilty of murder.

He couldn't fix all of it. He couldn't take Healy back to trial, couldn't get the guilty verdict that he deserved. But Matt could make him talk.

The door leading into the alleyway creaked open and Healy walked out. His pace was unhurried, his muscles relaxed, the beat of his heart calm. Obviously certain he'd gotten away with his actions. Matt shifted. He was going to remove that idea very quickly.

As Healy closed the trunk of his car, Matt moved. At the last second, Healy spun out of the way, and Matt landed on the car, the windshield cracking under the force of his landing. Matt didn't pause, spinning round with a kick that Healy just managed to duck under before coming at Matt with blows of his own. Healy was fast; faster than he'd expected.

Healy managed to get a grip and drag Matt off the trunk of the car. He grunted as his back hit the ground. Healy's weight shifted, and Matt moved his head just far enough to the side that when Healy's boot came down it missed. Matt wrapped an arm around Healy's ankle, locking him in place, and then knocked his other leg out from under him. Healy stumbled back into the car instead of falling to the ground, but it gave Matt time to get back on his feet.

Matt pressed his attack, but Healy kept his ground, at least until Matt managed to land a kick to the side of Healy's face. Healy went down, landing in some bags of trash at the side of the alley. He was only down for a second though, lunging to the side to snatch up a metal pipe laying near him.

Suddenly Matt was on the defensive as Healy swung the makeshift weapon at him wildly. He backed up, rounding the car, dodging as he went, waiting for the opening that was sure to come with Healy's wild swings. The moment it did, Matt took advantage, hopping on the hood of the car and landing another kick. Healy stumbled back and Matt lunged, twisting the pipe out of his hand. The pipe clattered to the ground and Matt shoved Healy against the wall. Healy slammed his arm down on Matt's, breaking his grip so he could twist away.

They went back to trading blows, working the rest of the way around the car to get back to where the fight had first started. _This has to end._ Matt hooked his leg, got a grip on his arms, and threw him across the alley. Healy hit a mirror that was leaning up against the other wall, the sound of shattering glass echoing through the alleyway. As Healy scrambled back to his feet, he snatched up a large piece of broken glass, swinging it at Matt like a knife.

Matt dodged back and Healy pressed forward with his makeshift weapon. Then Healy swung too wide, and Matt grabbed his arm and flipped him around, landing Healy on his back and twisting his arm so the glass was pointed at Healy. He tried to jerk against Matt's hold, but this time he wasn't getting out of it.

"The man that hired your lawyers," Matt snapped, keeping Healy pinned in place. "Who does he work for?"

"You think I'm afraid of you?" Healy asked. Matt could hear the steady beat of his heart; Healy was right, he wasn't nearly scared enough. Not yet.

Matt shifted his weight, and the glass stabbed into Healy's shoulder. Healy cried out, his hand trying to push back on Matt's wrists. After a few seconds, Matt let the glass slip out of his shoulder, shifting it so the jagged edge pressed against Healy's neck. And now, _now_ Healy's heart was beating out a pattern that Matt could almost dance to. Now Healy was afraid.

"Who does he work for?"

"I can't," Healy gasped out, and Matt pressed the glass just a little harder at Healy's neck, just hard enough to nick the skin.

"I want a name!"

Healy gasped, still trying to push ineffectively at Matt's wrists. Matt leaned in just a little more, and then, "Fisk! His name is Wilson Fisk!"

Matt instantly let go, pulling back and allowing Healy to roll away. _Fisk? Where have I heard that name?_ He knew he'd heard it somewhere before, but he couldn't place it.

He stood, looming over Healy still. "You get in your car. If I ever see you in Hell's Kitchen again – "

"No," Healy said, pushing up to his knees.

"You do not want to test me," Matt warned.

Healy pushed himself up. "You think this is still about you? I gave up his name; you don't do that, not to him."

Matt tipped his head, listening. Healy's heart was still going, as scared as he'd been when Matt had made it seem like he'd be willing to kill him for Fisk's name.

Suddenly, it clicked. Matt remembered where he'd heard the name Fisk before. The woman, the one he'd saved from the mugging almost two weeks ago now. When he'd run into her at the police station, Brett had called her 'Ms. Fisk', and so had the man waiting for her outside the station to drive her home.

Healy stood, but nothing in his posture or heart rate indicated plans to attack. "He'll find me," Healy said, his voice flat with certainty. "He'll make an example of me. Then he'll find everyone I've ever cared about, and he'll do the same to them. So that no one ever does what I just did."

"If you leave tonight," Matt started, but Healy was shaking his head already, drifting away from Matt with slow steps.

"It won't matter. He'll find me." Healy paused, turning his head in Matt's direction. "You should have just killed me. You coward."

Matt finally registered what Healy was about to do, but it was too late. He barely managed half a step before Healy impaled his face on a spike protruding from the iron fence that bordered part of the alley. Matt froze, the sudden silence left behind as Healy's heart stopped seeming to echo around him. He had never meant for…

His hands clenched into fists. It didn't matter what he'd intended. This was what had happened, and there was nothing more Matt could do about it. He used a fire escape to climb to the roof of one of the buildings. Once there, he paused, thinking through his next move.

What were the chances that the woman he'd saved had some sort of connection to Wilson Fisk, the mysterious figure he'd been trying to track down? It was hard to imagine her doing anything to hurt others, though that could just be because of how helpless she'd seemed the night he'd saved her. He didn't actually know anything about her. Just because she'd been targeted by a mugger didn't mean that she was automatically a good person.

 _Can't hurt to look into her at least._

She was the only lead he had for Wilson Fisk at the moment, and Matt remembered that she'd entered an apartment building not too far from where she'd been attacked. The night was still young; he could go there, find her, and see if he could figure out what - if any - connection she had to Wilson Fisk. If she was connected to him, well, Matt would figure out his next move from there.

He traveled to her apartment building via a path of rooftops and back alleys, wincing at times as jumps made the ache of his injuries worse. He hadn't quite fully recovered from his fight with the Russians to rescue that boy, and fighting Healy tonight had only served to aggravate his partially healed wounds. Mostly, though, he ignored the pain. He'd be fine.

When Matt made it to the roof of her building, he went to the center and crouched down. This was the part where things were going to get tricky. He'd payed enough attention to Ms. Fisk when she'd run away to note that she'd made it safely into the building, but he hadn't payed attention to where she'd gone once there. He was going to have to search for her.

Matt let his mind settle, preparing himself. He normally filtered out a lot of the background information that he could pick up on, but in order to find her in a building full of people, he'd have to open himself up to everything.

It was always a moment of near overwhelm when he did; conversations happening on top of each other, footsteps, a baby crying, vacuum cleaners running, the hum of electricity, different types of music playing, movies and TV shows blaring through speakers. Smells hit him too; baby powder, dozens of different perfumes and colognes, soaps and shampoos, cleaners, dozens of different types of food, the smell of pets.

He caught a whiff of a particular brand of coffee, the kind that had been hanging around Ms. Fisk when he'd bumped into her at the police station. Matt narrowed his focus into that, following it to a small one-bedroom apartment on the fourth floor. There was a woman in the apartment, sitting on the couch, surrounded by stacks of papers. She'd mixed liberal amounts of some kind of peppermint and chocolate creamer in her coffee, which she sipped slowly as she scribbled something on one of the papers. "Oh, come on," she mumbled. "That should have been an easy question. Why are so many people missing it?"

 _It's her._ Matt was sure of it. He settled in, prepared to listen for a while. She didn't move much, taking care of whatever papers she was dealing with. Eventually he figured out she was grading tests, based on her occasional mumbled comments.

 _She's a teacher._

Matt filed that tidbit of information away. After a while she tossed her pen down on her coffee table and started gathering up the papers. It sounded like she was stacking them neatly. Then she picked up her by then empty coffee mug and carried it into the kitchen. Based on what he could hear, it sounded like she was starting to clean up her dinner dishes. She hummed while she worked.

He frowned. _This could take a while._

She clearly lived alone, so there was no one to strike up a conversation with her that might inadvertently reveal something useful to Matt – like whether or not she actually had a connection to Wilson Fisk. He'd have to wait and hope someone dropped in to visit her, or called her. Or if she went out in the evening, he could follow her. Though it didn't seem likely she was going anywhere tonight.

She finished cleaning the kitchen and went back to the living room, over to her bookshelves. "Which one tonight?" She ran her hands over the spines of books. "Ah, this one." She sounded pleased by her selection, whatever it was. Book in hand, she settled back on her couch, tucking her feet under her.

Matt sighed and shook his head. He wasn't getting anything tonight, clearly. He'd come back tomorrow. It was a Friday; hopefully she'd have something more interesting going on. Maybe something that actually involved talking so he could get information.

 _There's got to be a faster way of getting information form her._ He wouldn't entertain the idea of interrogating her. There was a chance she didn't have any connection to Wilson Fisk at all, and the shared last name was just coincidence, and Matt wasn't about to frighten an innocent woman. Especially not one that he'd previously saved. But this method, following her around and eavesdropping on her activities could take days, maybe longer. He didn't have that much time to spare, not when he also had to keep putting pressure on the Russians to make sure they didn't find Claire.

Matt frowned as he considered his options. Maybe, if he wasn't willing to use the methods that typically came with the mask to get information from her, then the mask wasn't his best option. Perhaps this information might be better gained as Matt Murdock, though he was still a little fuzzy on how he'd manage it. But there had to be something more effective than this.

He pushed back to his feet, wincing a little at the protest of his muscles. _Just go home, go to sleep. I'll figure this part out tomorrow._

* * *

Kids were fidgeting in their desks, eyes darting to the clock hanging on the wall, the eager anticipation for the weekend's beginning thick in the air. Heather decided to give in for once. "Okay, you can start packing your things."

There was an excited clatter as the kids started packing away their books and papers. Heather drifted through the classroom to Jason's desk. He'd come back to school midweek, and she'd been keeping a careful eye on him to make sure he was doing okay. He seemed to be doing well. A little quieter than he'd been before, but that was the only change Heather had noticed in the classroom. He was putting the finishing touches on a picture he'd been drawing on a sheet of construction paper.

Heather leaned over his desk slightly. "Hey, Jason, what are you working on?"

He glanced up at her and smiled a little. "It's the masked man," he said. Heather studied the picture. Jason was a pretty good artist, especially for his age, and the figure on the paper was recognizably the masked man. He'd also drawn himself in the picture, holding the masked man's hand.

Heather tapped the paper. "And who are these people?" she asked, indicated the figures he'd drawn at their feet.

Jason's smile dropped. "Those're the bad people."

Heather nodded. "I see." She wasn't surprised by the content of Jason's drawings. He was naturally an artist, and still a kid, so trying to process the traumatic event he'd been through in pictures was to be expected. "Are you going to give the picture to you Mom and Dad?"

He squirmed, looking unsure. "Actually, can I give it to you? When I draw the masked man, it makes Mom sad. She doesn't say it, but I can tell."

Heather doubted it was the masked man that made Mrs. Holloway upset. More likely it was the reminder of what Jason had been through; what his parents hadn't been able to protect him from. But Heather just smiled at Jason. "I would be thrilled to have one of your pictures."

Jason beamed up at her and handed her the paper. The bell rang, and Heather quickly set the paper on her desk as the kids scrambled to line up at the door. Once they were lined up properly, Heather walked her class outside so they could be collected by their parents, or loaded on their buses to go home. Once her students were taken care of, Heather hurried back to her classroom to straighten up and collect her things. She was as eager for the weekend as her students had been.

Once she had everything loaded up in her leather satchel, Heather slung the strap over her shoulder and headed out. She usually took the subway to the stop nearest her home, but the day was bright and beautiful, and Heather had extra energy, so she decided to walk. She'd only gone a few blocks before her phone rang with the tune she'd set for Maria. Heather dug it out of her bag and answered.

"Aren't you supposed to working still?" Heather asked by way of greeting.

"I'm on a smoke break," Maria replied.

"But you don't smoke," Heather said.

"I know that, you know that, my boss doesn't. Besides, it's hardly fair to give extra breaks to people making poor life decisions instead of people making good life decisions."

"Sure, sure," Heather said. "Why are you calling?"

"Movie night, me and you," Maria said. "Tonight!"

"In or out?" Heather dodged a business man going in the opposite direction on the sidewalk.

"Out, obviously," Maria said. "You probably haven't left your apartment all week."

"You know, I actually like being in my apartment," Heather said. "It's very cozy. And I can dress like a hobo and no one will judge me."

"Dress like a hobo if you want!" Maria said. "No one judges in this city."

"Pretty sure everyone judges," Heather said. She went around an older woman walking slow. "Especially if I'm with you and you're dressed in all your fashionableness."

"Not sure that's really how you're supposed to use that word," Maria said. "But I'm going to take that as a yes. Meet me at our usual theater at seven. Don't eat dinner. We're going to stuff ourselves on movie snacks like we're still in college or something."

"Okay," Heather laughed. "Wait, what movie are we seeing?"

"Bye!"

"Maria, wait!" The call ended. Heather lowered her hand and glared at the screen for a moment. When Maria refused to tell her what movie they were going to see, it was usually because it was a genre that Heather would typically say no to. Maria said she needed to 'expand her horizons'. And okay, occasionally the movies actually turned out to be good. But usually Heather ended up not liking them almost as much as she expected.

Her distracted thoughts and looking down at her phone turned out to be a mistake. Heather walked into someone, her foot catching on something in the process and sending her towards the sidewalk. The man she'd walked into managed to get an arm around her waist halting her fall, though he dropped his paper cup of coffee to the ground in the process.

"Oh my gosh, I am so sorry," Heather said.

"It's fine," the man said, helping her settle back on her feet. His voice was familiar, and Heather looked up at him, eyes going wide as she recognized him.

"It's you!" she blurted out. He was the same man she'd run into at the police station. _Wait, does that mean…_ She glanced down, and sure enough, he had his cane in hand, and that was what she had tripped over when she'd bumped into him. Heat suffused her face. What were the chances that she'd literally run into the same blind guy more than once?

His head tipped to the side. "I'm sorry, have we met?"

 _Ground, if you were ever going to open up and bury me alive, now is the time to do it._

The ground refused to oblige and swallow her, so Heather was forced to actually respond. "Um, sort of. I'm uh, I'm the woman that ran into you at the police station."

"Ah, yes," he said, "I remember that." He flashed a grin down at her. "Is this a habit of yours? Running into people?"

"No," Heather said, with an embarrassed laugh. "No, it's um, really not." Her face was going to be permanently red, she could feel it. She glanced down at her feet and saw the spilled coffee on the ground. The amount told her his cup must have been nearly full when she'd knocked it out of his hand. "Oh, your drink! I can replace that."

"No, it's fine," he said. "I probably don't need the caffeine anyway."

His polite refusal only made her feel worse. "Please, I insist. I know the importance of caffeine."

He laughed a little. "Well, if you're insisting. The coffee shop is this way." He nodded his head to the right, and when Heather looked she spotted the one he meant.

"Okay, great," she said.

He turned back toward the coffee shop, and Heather fell into step beside him. "I'm Matt, by the way," he said. "I don't think we were properly introduced last time."

"No, we weren't," she said, brushing loose strands of hair behind one ear. "I'm Heather."

"It's nice to properly meet you, Heather," Matt said.

"Yeah," Heather said, "though it would have been nicer if we'd met without me almost knocking you down."

"I think I'll survive," he said.

The came near the door, and Heather moved ahead to open it for him. A bell dinged as the door opened, and he smiled in her direction. The bell must have tipped him off about what she'd done. Matt led the way to the counter, and the teenage girl behind it seemed surprised to see him. "Back already?" she asked.

"There was a bit of an accident with the coffee, I'm afraid," Matt said.

"I owe him a new drink," Heather said, digging through her satchel to find her wallet.

"Oh-kay," the girl said. "You had a large coffee, black, right?"

"That's right," Matt said.

"Anything for you?" the girl asked, looking at Heather. She paused, glancing up at the menu. She hadn't planned on buying coffee on her way home, but she was here, and she had a couple more blocks to walk in the cold.

"Sure, I'll take a large vanilla latte," Heather said.

"Whip cream with that?" the girl asked.

"Please," Heather said. She held herself back from ordering extra. If she was going to eat a bunch of junk food at the movies tonight, she didn't need the extra sugar now. Besides, she'd already given Matt enough reasons to judge her. She didn't need to give him another.

Heather paid for the drinks and the girl smiled brightly at them. "Your order will be right out."

They shifted down the counter to wait at the pick-up area. Now that they'd ordered their drinks, Heather found herself at a loss for what to say. She bit her lip, trying to think of something. It felt awkward to stand there in silence, but her mind was blank. It was almost a physical relief when Matt spoke up.

"You know, it's kind of funny, running into the same person more than once in this city," Matt said. "Are you new to Hell's Kitchen?"

"Um, no," Heather said. "I grew up here. Kind of hard to imagine living anywhere else, honestly."

"What, you've never dreamed of living somewhere far away?"

Heather shrugged a little, toying with the strap of her satchel. "Maybe a little, when I was a teenager. Turns out I'm a bit of a homebody. Besides, my family is here, and I can't see me leaving them behind."

"Sounds like you've got a big family."

Heather shook her head, only belatedly remembering that he couldn't see the movement. "Um, no. It's just me, my mom, and my brother."

"You must be close then, with only three of you."

Her heart skipped a beat at the comment. She thought of her mother, living in the best care facility Wilson could afford, who on her good days recognized Heather, and on her bad days thought she was one of the staff. She thought of Wilson, and how she never had a conversation that went deeper than the surface levels with him, and how lonely that felt.

There was no way she was going to say any of that to a complete stranger though, so she smiled and forced cheer into her voice. "We are. I can't imagine life without Mom or Wilson."

His head tilted slightly. "That's good."

"Here're your drinks," an employee said, a welcome distraction from the conversation.

"Thank you," Heather said, accepting both of the proffered drinks. She held Matt's out for him. "Here you go."

"Thanks," he said, holding out a hand but not actually reaching for the cup. Heather felt her face flush again as she realized of course he wouldn't, he didn't know where it was. She carefully pressed the cup into his hand, only letting go when she was sure he had it in his grip.

"You're welcome," Heather said. _Now please let me get out of this before I do anything else to embarrass myself._

They walked out of the coffee shop together. "Well, it was nice meeting you officially, Matt," Heather said.

"It was," he agreed. "Maybe we'll bump into each other again sometime." The grin on his face told her that his word choice was absolutely deliberate, and she groaned.

"Hopefully not." It took about .2 seconds for Heather to realize what she had said. "No! I didn't mean – I just meant not – not literally, I don't want to run into – I mean, trip over…" Her words stumbled to a halt at the look on Matt's face, as though he was trying valiantly not to laugh at her. "You know what, I'm just going to leave now. Have a good weekend."

"You too," he said, then turned and walked away. Heather slowly did the same, heading in the opposite direction.

 _Of all the days not to take the subway. I had to pick today._

* * *

 **AN:** I can't take much credit for the opening scene; you likely recognized the fight with Healy from episode 1-3, Rabbit in a Snowstorm. And, here we get the first major Matt/Heather interaction! I had an absolutely delightful time writing that scene, so I hope ya'll enjoyed reading it :)

Hope everyone celebrating Thanksgiving had a fun and safe holiday!


	5. Chapter 5

**AN:** I've been skimming over the bad guys activities so far, because neither of my main POV characters really know what's going on with them (despite Matt's efforts, poor guy), and because I've tried to mostly avoid rewriting bits of the show just as they happened in canon. However, this chapter reaches the moment where things between Fisk and the Russians are about to come to a head. If parts are confusing, let me know, and I'll do my best to clarify. Also, you may recognize two scenes in this chapter as being pulled (with some modification) from episode 5, World on Fire.

* * *

 _At least now I know Wilson Fisk exits._

Matt had known Healy wasn't lying when he'd given up Fisk's name – and besides, no one would kill themselves over revealing a fake name – but when he'd tried to do research into Fisk today, he'd hit a brick wall. Nothing he tried had brought up anything about Fisk; it was as if the man was a ghost.

His lack of progress was the main reason he'd decided to go through with his idea of arranging a run in with Heather to see what he could find out. The conversation had confirmed that Heather was connected to Wilson Fisk – he was her brother. She was a solid link to getting to him, but Matt was at a loss as to what he should do with her.

Wilson Fisk was clearly deeply involved in the crime plaguing Hell's Kitchen, but Matt wasn't so sure how or even if Heather was. It was difficult to imagine someone as easy to fluster as Heather being involved in any kind of organized crime. Plus, she'd been lying when she said she was close to her family. Perhaps she knew that Wilson Fisk was involved in crime and tried to distance herself from him.

Stray words caught Matt's attention. " – some blind guy? It's not like he's a threat to her."

"Orders are orders," another voice answered. "We report everything she does to the boss."

Matt slowed his steps, listening in on the conversation. He focused, trying to pinpoint who was talking.

"I guess," the first voice said. Male, with the husky rasp of a long-time smoker. "You gotta admit though, this is one of the weirder jobs we've had to do."

"Doesn't matter," the second replied. Also male, sounded slighter younger than the first, though that could just be because the other guy smoked. "We're getting paid well to do an easy job."

Matt got a fix on them. The two men were average height and build, bundled up for the cold. They were drifting down the sidewalk slowly, following Heather. They were good at it, making sure they went unnoticed.

"I guess," the first man said. "Just seems weird he needs someone to follow his sister."

"He's not paying us to ask questions about it," the second man said.

 _Fisk is having her followed? Why?_

The cellphone in his pocket vibrated, and the computerized voice spoke up. "Foggy. Foggy."

Matt sighed, shifting the items in his hands so he could dig the phone out. Foggy probably wanted to know why Matt's late lunch had turned into an extra long lunch, especially since they actually had a client to meet with this afternoon. It didn't sound like the men following Heather were an immediate threat to her, so Matt didn't mind focusing on his real job for a little while. Besides, now he had a better direction to work in later. Instead of trying to figure out a way to get more information from Heather, he could go after the men following her. They wouldn't be hard to find, and Matt was much more comfortable with the thought of interrogating them instead of Heather.

"Hey, Foggy. Sorry I'm running late. I promise, I'm on my way."

* * *

"And this," Heather said, gesturing at Maria's outfit, "is why I can't dress like a hobo when I go off with you."

Maria always managed to look chic, and tonight was no exception. She wore dark skinny jeans tucked into sleek boots, a richly colored burgundy sweater, small gold earrings, all topped with a black trench coat. Her short black hair was attractively tousled by the evening breeze, and her makeup perfect.

"You look lovely," Maria said, looping an arm through Heather's.

Heather laughed, knowing lovely wasn't the right word. Presentable would be more accurate. She'd clipped her hair up but hadn't bothered touching up her makeup, and she'd changed out of her work clothes into jeans, flats, and a button up under a cozy old sweater. "You're sweet," Heather said. "Now, what movie are we seeing that you didn't want to name over the phone?" She looked over the options being offered on the screen above the cashiers, trying to see if she could guess.

"Well," Maria said, then Heather spotted a likely title and groaned.

"No, not the dumb horror movie," Heather said.

"You don't know that it's dumb!" Maria protested. "You haven't seen it yet. It could be good!"

Heather sighed, but went along with Maria's choice. She didn't generally like horror movies. They didn't frighten her, but most horror movies seemed to depend on their protagonists being complete idiots, which was, in Heather's opinion, bad storytelling. It was rare to find a horror movie that genuinely frightened or entertained her, but Maria loved them.

 _Just look at it as an excuse to overindulge on candy. And maybe Maria will be right. Maybe it won't be so bad._

Maria was not right. The movie turned out to be just as poorly plotted as Heather had expected. The whole thing could have been solved in the first ten minutes if the protagonist had just had the sense to get in their car and drive away. But they didn't, and Heather had to sit through nearly two hours of bad decisions and cheesy death scenes.

As the credits rolled, Heather looked at Maria. "That was terrible. Next time, I'm picking the movie."

"It wasn't terrible!" Maria protested.

"It was," Heather said. "You have awful taste in movies. But it's okay, everyone has to have some flaws."

Maria pushed her shoulder playfully. "Fine. You pick next time."

They walked out the theater together, and Heather shivered at the cold. Maria linked her arm through Heather's again. "Come on, let's walk fast. The subway will be warmer than this, at least."

"Anything exciting happen at work?" Heather asked.

"If by exciting you mean terrible, then yes," Maria said. "That one security guard is back at the courthouse. You know, the one with the creepy mustache that always tries to flirt with me? I was hoping they'd moved him somewhere, but I guess he was just on vacation."

Heather made a sympathetic noise. "I'm sorry. Hey, if you told Dominique he was bothering you, then you could probably activate her scary mom mode."

Maria snorted. "He's annoying, not evil. I'm not trying to get him killed."

Heather let out a quiet laugh, and Maria tugged on her arm. "Tell me something funny that happened to you this week. That'll cheer me up."

"What makes you think I have a funny story?" Heather protested. "Earlier you were saying I probably spent my whole week in my apartment."

"Yeah, but you work with kids," Maria said. "They're always doing something funny."

Heather shook her head. The kids had actually been pretty tame this week. _She'd probably think me running into that guy, Matt, was funny._ Heather could feel her face heat at just the memory. It would definitely go down as one of her more awkward encounters.

"Oh my gosh, you're blushing," Maria said.

Heather looked at her in alarm. "No, I'm not!"

"You are! You're blushing! Something happened to you that didn't involve the kids, spill," Maria said gleefully.

Heather groaned. How could Maria even see the flush on her face in this dim lighting? _There's no avoiding it now._ Maria was like a dog with a bone when she caught a whiff of an entertaining story, especially if it involved her friends.

"I might have literally run into the same blind guy twice in the past two weeks," Heather reluctantly admitted.

Maria laughed. "How did you manage to do that?"

"Well the second time was your fault," Heather said in defense. She told Maria about both incidents, the first time at the police station and then the second time from earlier that afternoon.

Once Maria had stopped snickering at her misfortune, she said, "Actually, now that I think about it, I might know the guy you ran into."

"Seriously?" Heather asked. "How could you know him?"

"Well, not know him, know him," Maria said waving one hand. "If he's the guy I'm thinking of, he used to intern at Landman and Zack. What'd you say his partner's name was?"

Heather had to think about it for a moment. "I think Sergeant Mahoney called him Foggy?"

Maria nodded. "That's them then; Foggy Nelson and Matt Murdock. I didn't really get to know them, but I guess we were friendly-ish acquaintances. They were actually offered positions at Landman and Zack, but they turned the offers down to open their own practice. Hope they're doing okay. They seemed nice." She glanced sideways at Heather as they started down the steps to the subway. "And as I recall, Murdock wouldn't be the worst person in the world to run into."

Heather groaned. "No, don't you start. We have to hear enough of this from Becky."

"Don't worry, my stance on happy singledom has not changed," Maria laughed. "But that doesn't mean I can't admire."

Heather rolled her eyes. "Fine, he's nice looking. Doesn't make what happened any less awkward."

Maria shook her head. "Nice looking. I swear, you could win awards for your skills with understatement. Don't worry about it though. What are the chances you'll run into him again?"

Before this afternoon, Heather would have said none. Now, she wasn't so sure.

* * *

Matt's night didn't go anything like he had planned. As soon as he'd finished up work with Foggy, Claire had called him, and he'd realized that she'd been found by the Russians. From there it had been a desperate race to track her down before it was too late.

He had, to his eternal relief. Claire was safe, her injuries relatively minor, all things considered. She'd live. She'd heal. She'd be okay. But Matt was still shaken by the knowledge that she very nearly hadn't been, all because of him; because she was a good person, and had decided to help him. Her pain was on him, and if she'd died, that would have been on him too.

 _It didn't happen,_ Matt thought. She was there, sitting at his kitchen table. At his insistence, she'd staid at his place the night before, though it hadn't taken much insisting to get her to agree. Claire hadn't been eager to return home after being taken by the Russians.

She was less afraid this morning than she'd been last night, able to joke and tease with him, able to ask questions about his abilities. Claire was brave, and trying, and Matt desperately wanted to keep her safe.

"Claire," Matt said, leaning slightly forward in his seat. "They know who you are now." She looked away, some of her easy comfort from moments ago slipping away. "They're not going to stop. I'd like you to stay here, with me. Just until I figure something out."

She looked up sharply at his words and brushed damp hair out of her face. "That's a hell of a way to get a girl to move in."

Matt offered a smile, because she wasn't saying no. "It worked, didn't it?"

Claire let out a soft laugh, her chin dropping. Carefully, Matt reached out, let his fingers catch under her chin and tilt her head back up. Her pulse skipped, but she didn't pull away. He leaned in slowly, giving her time to change her mind, to say no. She didn't. When Matt pressed his lips to hers, he kept the touch gentle, mindful of her cuts and bruises.

When he pulled back, he let his forehead rest against hers, and Claire sighed. "I was wondering if we were ever going to do that," she whispered.

"I've been a little busy," Matt replied. He separated from her touch with some reluctance. A part of him would have preferred to stay in that moment with Claire, but he still had things to do. "I'll get you some clothes while I'm out." He stood heading to the counter to collect his phones. He didn't need to go in to the office since it was the weekend, but he did have things to take care of; getting some basic supplies for Claire while she stayed with him was just another addition to his list.

"Why don't you go to the police with all that you have on the Russians?" Claire asked as he got them.

"I wear a mask and beat on people," Matt said dryly. "Doesn't exactly mesh with police policy."

"You're going to end up in another dumpster if you try to take down the entire Russian mob yourself," Claire pointed out. She probably wasn't wrong, but it wasn't enough reason to stop.

"Maybe I only need to take down one man," Matt said.

"Fisk?" Claire asked, clearly recalling their previous conversation.

"Cut off the head of the snake," Matt said as he walked back to the chair he'd just been sitting in and rested his hands on the back of it, "the body dies."

"How do you know he's the head of the snake if you can't find anything on him?" Claire shifted in her seat, following his movement.

"There was a murder in a bowling alley, a man named Prohaszka," Matt said. "Owned the majority of Kitchen Cabs."

"They were turning those over in the garage they took me to," Claire said, making the connection.

"I think Fisk hired the man that killed Prohaszka," Matt said. "Everything leads back to him, but no one will talk." He hesitated for a second before adding, "And I have found one lead on him."

"You have?"

He nodded. "Turns out, Wilson Fisk has a sister. She doesn't keep quite as low a profile as he does."

"Is this sister involved?"

"I don't know," Matt admitted. He let go of the chair, moved over to where he had his cane leaning against the couch. "She doesn't really strike me as the kind of person who'd be involved in organized crime, but sometimes it's hard to tell."

Claire cocked her head to the side. "It sounds like you've already talked to her."

"I sort of have." He briefly sketched out the run in he'd orchestrated with Heather the day before.

"Kind of sounds like she might have some involvement, if she's got bodyguards following her."

"Thing is, I don't think she knows they're following her," Matt said. It certainly hadn't sounded like it, from the parts of the conversation that he'd been able to overhear. "They aren't just guarding her; they're reporting back to Fisk about her activities too. Plus, I'm pretty sure they're new."

"How could you know that?"

"I saved Heather from a mugger about two weeks ago," Matt said. "She didn't have anyone guarding her then. My guess, the men following her are in reaction to that."

"So, what, are you planning to interrogate this woman and see what she knows?" Claire asked.

"No," Matt said shortly. He wasn't going to risk hurting someone who could very well be innocent. "But I think the men following her are fair game."

Claire nodded slowly, her hair brushing against her shoulders at the movement. "If you need another lead to follow," she said, "I heard another name last night when they were – " her words faltered, and it took effort for Matt to keep his face neutral.

He hadn't had the chance to hurt those men nearly as much as they'd deserved.

She picked up her sentence, her words moving faster to cover for her lapse. "The prick with the baseball bat reacted when he heard it. Like a dog when you yank his leash."

"What was the name?"

"Vladimir."

* * *

Heather tapped her pen against the paper, studying it critically to make sure she wasn't forgetting anything. She needed to head to the grocery store, and she'd rather not have to rush back out and grab something important.

 _I think that's everything._

It'd had better be. Groceries were not Heather's favorite errand, and the fewer times she had to deal with it, the better.

Heather shoved the list in her purse and pulled on her jacket and scarf. She was almost at the door when she realized she was forgetting her cloth grocery bags, so she spun on her heel and snatched those up, then went back to the door. She swung it open, then started at the sight of a man with a hand raised to knock. Heather pressed a hand over her heart. "James! You startled me!"

"My apologies, Ms. Fisk," James Wesley said, a wry smile touching his face. "It was unintended, I assure you."

Heather smiled, waving away his apology. "Don't worry about it. What brings you around?" It had been a couple weeks since she'd seen Wilson's assistant.

"I'm between meetings in the area, so I thought I'd stop by and say hello. I also thought you might like these," James said, holding out a box. Heather perked up, immediately recognizing the logo of her favorite bakery.

"Oh, James, you shouldn't have!" Heather said, even as she reached out for the box. "Thank you; though I can't believe Wilson has you working on a Saturday."

"It's only because he is," James said.

Heather shook her head, letting out a little laugh. "Of course he is. Wilson never has figured out the meaning of taking things easy."

"What about you?" James asked. "Are you doing alright?"

She almost sighed; she'd thought she'd gotten past people asking if she was okay. The incident with the mugger had been two weeks ago now. Though, to be fair, she hadn't seen James during that time, so it probably shouldn't be a surprise that he'd ask.

Then a suspicion reared up in her mind, and she narrowed her eyes at him. "James," she said, her voice automatically slipping into the tone she used with her students when she caught them misbehaving. "Did Wilson send you to check up on me because I turned down his offer of a bodyguard?"

"That doesn't sound like something Mr. Fisk would do," James said, and Heather tipped her head doubtfully, tapping one foot, because they both knew that it was exactly the sort of thing that Wilson would do.

James sighed and held up his hands in surrender. "Okay, yes. But it's only because he cares about you, Ms. Fisk."

Heather let out a deep sigh and leaned against her door frame. "I know, but I'm a grown woman. I don't need a babysitter." She shook her head. Honestly, the lengths Wilson went to sometimes… "You can tell Wilson I'm fine. And if he must know, tell him I'm running errands, and then I'm settling in for a quiet evening at home. Also, he doesn't have to send people to check on me. He can just text me or something."

"I'll relay the message," James said. "I apologize for intruding; enjoy the rest of your day, Ms. Fisk."

He started to walk away, and Heather started to turn back into the apartment to drop off the box before heading out on her errands, but she paused and leaned back out in the hall. "Hey, James?"

He stopped and turned back to look at her, eyebrows raised in question. "I'm pretty sure I've told you this before, but you can call me Heather. You work for Wilson, not me."

He smiled. "Of course, Ms. Fisk."

She shook her head. "Have a good day, James." Heather ducked back in her apartment and set the box on her kitchen counter. She couldn't resist peaking quickly to see just what he'd brought her; half a dozen blueberry bagels. _Oh, these'll be good._

Her curiosity satisfied, Heather headed out to finish her errands, looking forward to her evening with renewed vigor. Curling up with a new book, coffee, and a blueberry bagel topped with cream cheese sounded like the perfect way to relax. _It's going to be a good night._

* * *

Vladimir tended to his brother's body gently, cleaning off the dried blood with a damp cloth. He didn't flinch or shy away from the gruesome sight of Anatoly's missing head; he'd seen just as bad before. The gentle, deliberate motions as he worked belied the fierce rage burning in his chest.

A door opened behind him, but Vladimir didn't bother looking up from his work. He'd been expecting this visitor.

"Hey, sorry about your…" Turk Barrett's voice trailed off for a moment. "…Just sorry, you know?"

Vladimir ignored the attempted condolences. He was nowhere near naive enough to think Turk was sincere. "Sergei tells me you know something. Something about the man who took my brother from me."

"Yeah, uh." Turk paused. Possibly he was uncomfortable having the conversation in the room with Anatoly's body lying on the table. Vladimir didn't care. "Look, I know this guy. We did a stretch in Ryker's. Now he's in a chop shop on the edge of the Kitchen. Told me an SUV came in yesterday. Black, expensive, back seat all splattered with blood and uh, brains."

Vladimir lifted his head, turning to look back at Turk for the first time since he and Sergei had entered the room. "This car. Who does it belong too?"

Turk shrugged slightly. "Some big white guy. Bald as shit."

He recognized that description. "Fisk?"

"He didn't get a name," Turk replied, "but my boy said he heard baldy say something about that guy in the black mask. Couldn't make it all out but it sounds like he and this mask dude are tight."

"He works for Fisk." The fury in his chest burned higher as it sank in what this meant. "All this time, Fisk has been playing us. Planning this." Planning to destroy Vladimir and Anatoly, to take everything they'd worked for, to betray them. He turned to Sergei, and spoke in Russian, knowing Turk wouldn't understand.

"Tell the men to pull back and get ready. Guns, rifles, grenades. All of it."

"All?" Sergei asked, a quiet wariness in his voice. He knew what this meant; that they were going to war against Fisk.

Vladimir's temper boiled. "All!" he shouted. There would be no hesitation. Fisk would pay for what he'd done.

Sergei nodded. "Yes, sir."

"Turk, spread the word on the streets," Vladimir said, moving towards the other man. "One million, for whoever can tell me where I can find Fisk. Tonight." Wilson Fisk was notoriously difficult to track down, but one million should be enough to make someone talk.

"One million?" Turk repeated. He nodded, almost smiling. "I'm on it."

Vladimir turned back to Anatoly as the other two left the room. _Soon, brother._ He couldn't bring Anatoly back to life, but he could make sure Fisk payed for what he'd done. Vladimir picked up the rag and returned to the chore of cleaning Anatoly's body.

 _If only there was some way to make Fisk feel the pain that he's put me through._

Vladimir paused in the middle of wiping away a streak of blood. He couldn't believe he'd almost forgotten. Back when this partnership had first begun, Vladimir and Anatoly had dug into the past of all their new partners; Madame Gao, Nobu, Owlsley, and Fisk. There was precious little to be found, which they'd expected. Fisk especially was a ghost, with no record of any kind that Vladimir or Anatoly had been able to dig up.

Except. Except they'd discovered a woman: Heather Fisk. It had only taken a little watching to figure out that she was Wilson Fisk's sister, though from what they'd observed she wasn't involved in any of his businesses. They'd never mentioned their knowledge of her. No point in telling all they were aware of, and one never knew when that sort of information could be useful.

Like now, when Fisk had had Anatoly murdered, and Vladimir was out for revenge.

Vladimir dropped the cloth and went for the door. "Sergei!"


	6. Chapter 6

Matt preferred to don the mask after dark; the darkness always worked in his favor. Thankfully, it was winter, so he didn't have to wait too long for the sun to set so he could get ready for his evening activities. As he changed into the suit, he listened to Claire in the living room. She was sitting on the couch, her fingers making a soft tapping sound as they drummed against the armrest, her heartbeat fluttering nervously. She'd gotten antsy the closer it had come to the time for Matt to leave. He wasn't sure what specifically was bothering her; the idea of being alone again, knowing that Matt was going out to do something dangerous, or something else entirely? She hadn't said. As the day had gone on, she'd only gotten quieter, and her discomfort served to make Matt uneasy as well.

She looked up when he opened the bedroom door. "I'm not sure how long I'll be out," Matt said. His night would depend largely on what he found out from the men tailing Heather. "Don't worry about staying up." She needed to get rest after what had happened to her.

Claire nodded slowly. Matt waited a moment to see if she was going to bring up whatever it was that was bothering her, and when it seemed like she wasn't, he moved towards the stairs that lead up to the roof.

"Matt, wait."

He paused, turning back in her direction.

"What are you going to do?" she asked. "To those men."

 _Why is she asking me that?_

What did Claire think he was going to do? He was going to be asking them about Fisk and Vladimir, and they weren't going to want to give him answers. She'd already seen the kind of things he had to do to get information from criminals, though he hoped he wouldn't have to go to the lengths that he'd done that night on the roof of Claire's building.

But she'd asked, and she was waiting for an answer. The answer was that Matt was going to hurt them. He just didn't know how much yet. "Whatever it takes."

He didn't need to hear the soft intake of breath or the skip of her heartbeat to know she didn't like his answer. "You know how that sounds, right?"

Matt did know how it sounded, but he also knew that he wouldn't cross that line. He wouldn't. He wouldn't let himself go too far. The questions Claire was asking though…it was starting to seem like she wasn't so sure that Matt could toe the line he'd set for himself.

"When we were on that roof," Claire said, "you told that Russian that you hurt people because you enjoy it."

"And you said you didn't believe that," Matt reminded her. He didn't tell her how much he had needed to hear that, how her certainty had acted as a balm to his very soul.

He didn't dare even think about the part of himself that _did_ take satisfaction from hurting those criminals, that part that sometimes relished their fear of him, that part that wanted them to feel every ounce of suffering that they had inflicted upon innocent people.

"I can't believe it," Claire said. She curled her arms around her torso and stood from the couch. "Because if I do, that means you're not the man I believe you to be."

Matt took a steadying breath, tried not to show how deep her words had hit. "I need to be the man this city needs."

Claire moved towards him, her arms dropping to her side as she shook her head. "Okay, that's not a reason, it's an excuse."

"What do you want me to do, Claire?" Matt snapped. "Let them tear Hell's Kitchen apart?" He'd thought – he'd thought she _understood_. That she got why he had to do this. The she could handle the compromises he sometimes had to make so he could save people. "Just let them _win_?"

She didn't say anything for a moment, and when she did, her voice was gentler. "What you do is important to so many people, I get that." He could feel the 'but' coming in the pause before she said it. "I just…I don't think I can let myself fall in love with someone who is so close to becoming what he hates."

A sort of quiet filled him once she said the words. He should have known this was coming. Wasn't this always how things went for him? He got attached and the other person walked away. It never really seemed to be a matter of if, but merely when. Maybe it was better to happen sooner rather than later.

"You're right," Matt said. "You shouldn't." He turned and walked up the stairs that led to the roof access. Claire took one step to follow before she stopped. Matt didn't acknowledge the movement; it wouldn't do either of them any good to do so.

There was a chilly breeze on the roof that evening, but it wasn't enough to cover the sound of Claire's quiet sob. Matt's shoulders slumped. He couldn't be mad at Claire about her decision to cut off what had been growing between them. She was protecting herself; she was realizing that her lines and his lines, they weren't in the same place. That was her right, and Matt's feelings weren't her problem.

Matt straightened up and moved away from the door. He had a job to do.

It didn't take long to get to Heather's apartment building utilizing rooftops and back alleys to get there. When he made it to the roof of her building, Matt paused. He needed to make sure Heather was actually home before he started trying to find the two men that had been tailing her. He focused in on her apartment and frowned.

She wasn't there, but the state she'd left her apartment in struck him as odd. He could hear the electric hum that meant she'd left lights on, and her TV was playing, tuned into some sitcom. There was an insistent beeping coming from her kitchen, sounded like…a microwave. Like the timer had run down, and it was reminding her that her food was done.

 _Who puts food in a microwave and then leaves?_

Something wasn't right, but Matt needed a closer look to figure out what exactly had happened. A fire escape let him down to Heather's window. He paused before moving into the line of sight the window would provide, double checking one last time that the apartment really was empty. It was. Matt moved to the window.

 _It's not quite closed all the way._

Another piece that didn't make sense. Who left windows open in January, with the weather they were having? Matt slipped inside the apartment and took a moment to get his bearing. To the immediate left of the window, there were two bookshelves both packed with books. The TV was on the wall to his far left, and beyond that was her bedroom. A rug, coffee table, couch, and chair had all been arranged facing the TV. To his right was the kitchen, an L-shaped counter separating it from the rest of the apartment. The counters were cluttered with various kitchen gadgets, a box of blueberry bagels, and a single spilled cup of coffee. The spill had happened long enough ago that the drink was cold.

Matt moved towards the kitchen. The smell of the coffee was strong enough to overpower most of the smells in Heather's apartment; she must make the stuff near constantly. Even so, Matt still managed to pick out the smell of cheap men's cologne.

He opened the microwave, and the incessant beeping finally stopped. She'd been reheating pasta, but it had been sitting long enough that it was now a cold, congealed mess. He closed the microwave door again.

 _Someone took her._ Unbidden, the memory of his meeting with Heather the day before flickered through his mind; how easy she'd been to fluster, how quick she'd been to offer to replace the drink she thought she'd spilled. An earlier memory floated up too – the pounding of her terrified heartbeat from the first time he'd met her, when he'd saved her from that mugger. Matt's hands clenched into fists.

 _Where are her bodyguards?_

Not in the apartment, and there wasn't enough blood or other mess to indicate that they'd ever made it inside to defend her. Matt went back out the window onto the fire escape, closing the window behind him. Now that he was looking for it, he noticed the coppery smell of blood in the alley below the fire escape, noticed the two bodies behind the dumpster, one still and rapidly cooling, the other with the slow heartbeat and breathing of the unconscious.

Matt rapidly made his way to the alley. Once down, he knelt over the unconscious man and grimaced at the smell of stale cigarettes that floated around him under the scent of blood and grime. He was laying face down, so Matt rolled him over, noting the man's fractured ribs as he did so. Whoever had taken Heather had worked him over good. The man groaned when Matt moved him, consciousness beginning to return. Matt got a good grip to keep him pinned down.

The man opened his eyes and immediately jerked. It didn't take much effort to hold him. "I have questions," Matt said.

"I'll tell you!" the man babbled. "Please, I'll tell you anything you want to know, just don't cut my head off!"

"… _What?_ "

Matt had fully expected the man to be afraid after the attack he'd already gone through, but that was an incredibly specific request, and Matt couldn't even begin to guess where it had come from.

The man was panting, probably from a mix of pain and fear. "Everyone on the street knows – knows what you did to the Russian, Anatoly."

Everyone except Matt himself, apparently. He wasn't even sure who Anatoly was, much less what had actually happened to him. Didn't matter right now though; he needed to know what had happened here, and if this rumor made the guy talk, Matt would use it.

"What happened tonight?" he snapped.

"It was the Russians, they – " he cut himself off in a string of curses. "Christ, they took her, Fisk is gonna kill me!"

Matt shook him to regain his attention. "I'm the one you need to worry about right now. Why would the Russians take her?"

"I don't – I don't know! They might as well declare war on him!"

Matt's scowl deepened. If the Russians _were_ planning a war against Fisk for whatever reason, then taking Heather was probably a good way to kick it off. It was impossible to guess if they'd plan to keep her alive as a hostage, or if they'd kill her to send a message to Fisk.

"Where would they take her?" Matt demanded. Because maybe he didn't know where Heather stood in all this exactly, whether she was involved in Fisk's criminal activities or an unfortunate bystander, but Matt _did_ know the kind of things mobsters would do to women they were allowed to torture. He wasn't going to stand back and let that happen to her.

"Probably…one of their bases." He rattled off a couple addresses; Matt recognized one of them as the restaurant where he'd found the boy the Russians had previously kidnapped. He mentally crossed that off the list; they weren't likely to have taken Heather there after Matt had cleaned the place out once already. That left three others to check, and precious little time.

He shoved the man away and stood. "Never let me catch you in my city again." Matt didn't wait for his response before dashing off.

* * *

Heather felt like someone had scraped her out and then overstuffed her with cotton. Her body was stiff. She couldn't move beyond some sporadic twitching of her fingers. Couldn't even get her eyelids to open. It felt like someone had glued them shut. Her brain was as stiff and sluggish as the rest of her, enough so that she couldn't quite put together why she felt like this. Some fuzzy part of her mind said she should know the answer, but it was hard to even think.

An unfamiliar male voice filtered through. " – higher dose of tranquilizer than we thought." The voice had an accent, though Heather's fuzzy brain couldn't place where it was from.

"We'll have to wait for her to wake up," another voice said. It sounded annoyed. "I want Fisk to know we have her."

The words set off alarms in Heather's mind. Slowly, the events from earlier came back to her. Putting up her groceries. Making coffee. Putting dinner in the microwave. Hearing a strange noise. A figure on her, covering her mouth before she had a chance to scream, a sharp pain when they injected her with something.

Heather's heart rate picked up as her brain finally put the pieces together. Someone had kidnapped her.

She managed to pry her eyes open, blinking a couple time to clear her vision. Her head had been slumped forward, chin resting on her chest, which allowed Heather's hair to obscure her face and gave her a moment to assess her current position. She was sitting in a wooden chair, her wrists tied to the armrests with zip ties. Her muscles were all stiff and her neck ached from the position she was in, meaning she'd probably been sitting in that chair for a while. She couldn't begin to guess how much time had gone by though, thanks to whatever they had drugged her with.

A hand balled up in her hair, tight enough to make her eyes sting with tears, and yanked her head up. "So, you're awake now."

Heather blinked the tears out of her eyes, trying to focus in on the man's face. He was all lean angles, hash and unforgiving, and the scar that curled down his face from under his right eye added a layer of menace. "Do you know who I am?" he asked.

She finally recognized the accent as Russian, and it sent a chill through her. Hadn't it been Russian mobsters that had kidnapped Jason? Weren't they known for trafficking people?

Fear sang through her veins, and between the fear and her dry mouth, her took her a moment to form words. "No, I – I don't."

He stared down at her, his grip on her hair still painfully tight. "I believe you." Abruptly he let go of her and walked away, pacing back and forth. Heather glanced around the room. There was another man, but he was just standing near the wall watching. The furniture was sparse; a couple of chairs, a table at the opposite end of the room with something on it –

Heather went rigid. That was a _body_. There was a headless body just laying there. She looked away and squeezed her eyes shut. Bile rose in her throat, and she had to fight it down.

The man let out a short laugh, though nothing about it sounded amused. "Your brother definitely kept you away from his work. He should have been smarter about it though. If you weren't to be part of it, he should have moved you to a different city. You'd have been safer."

 _What?_

"I don't know what you're talking about." Heather heard his footsteps moving back her way. She didn't dare open her eyes.

"Now that, I don't believe." He caught her jaw in his hand, fingers digging in painfully as her forced her to look up at him. "Just what did you think Wilson Fisk's business was?"

Words failed her.

" _What does your brother do, anyway?"_

How many times had Heather skirted around that innocent question? How many times had she left it with a vague, _"Oh, he's in business, it's all pretty much boring paperwork stuff."_ How many times had she deftly changed the subject, avoiding truths she couldn't stand to voice?

The man backhanded her, setting the right side of her face alight with pain. Heather jerked, the zip ties biting into her wrists as she did. He grabbed her jaw again, forcing her to look at him. "When I ask you a question, I expect you to answer!"

Tears slid down her cheeks. "I don't know! I don't know what he does, I _don't ask_!"

He let go of her, his face twisting in a sneer of contempt. "You don't ask? Let me tell you."

Her heart raced as he moved behind her, out of her line of sight. One hand pressed down on her shoulder, the other grabbed her hair again and turned her head to stare at the body on the table. "That over there," he said in her ear, "that is what is left of my brother Anatoly after _your_ brother sent one of his dogs after him."

The blood drained from Heather's face, making her so lightheaded she might have fallen if she hadn't already been tied to a chair. It wasn't true, _it wasn't true_ , Wilson wasn't capable of –

Traitorous memories sprang up, her mother's drunken words on a rainy night, _"Your father was cruel, Heather, so cruel. It's best you don't remember. Poor Willy, he didn't have a choice. He had to do it, he was protecting us."_

"And now," the man continued, "now Fisk will know my pain."

Seconds slipped by before Heather understood what he meant. A whimper slipped out once she did. "Please, I don't have anything to do with this."

"It doesn't matter." He let go of her, moved back into her line of sight. "Sergei, a phone." He held out a hand towards the other man, who up till now had been silent and unmoving in his place by the wall. The man stepped forward, pulling a phone out of his jacket and handing it over.

He tapped the screen, and ringing filled the room. He'd put the phone on speaker. It rang four times before someone answered.

"Vladimir, I wasn't expecting to hear from you."

Heather started, recognizing James's voice.

"I have a special message for your employer," Vladimir said, a sarcastic twist to the words as he spoke. He held the phone out towards Heather expectantly.

A small part of her wanted to stay silent to spite him; he was going to kill her anyway, why do what he wanted? But he only had to glare at her, and Heather's flicker of resistance crumbled. "James," she said, hating the way her voice cracked. "It's me. Heather."

Vladimir pulled the phone away. "You will pass the message on, like a good dog?"

"If any harm comes to her," James started, his voice colder than Heather had ever heard it before.

"The question isn't _if_ harm will come to her," Vladimir interrupted. "The question is how much will she suffer before I kill her, and how much of her will you manage to find." He hit the button to end the call.

Heather closed her eyes, bowed her head as more tears fell down her face. _Please, please…_

Please what? Let someone find her, save her? Let her death come swiftly, so she didn't have to suffer? Heather didn't know which she was praying for.

"Sergei, make sure we have extra guards," Vladimir said. Heather reluctantly opened her eyes to see him rolling up his sleeves. "Fisk doesn't know where we're at, but he'll surely be sending people to look for her."

"Yes, sir," Sergei said, moving to the door.

Vladimir turned to face Heather. "How should we start? Any suggestions?"

Her mouth went dry with fear. She couldn't even summon the words to beg. She was so focused on Vladimir, she barely registered Sergei beginning to open the door.

Then the world exploded.

* * *

For a second after Vladimir hung up on him, Wesley just stared at his phone, frozen with horror at this unexpected turn. No one was supposed to know about Heather, and she was never supposed to know about her brother's illicit activities. Those two worlds were _never_ supposed to meet. Now they had, in the worst way, at the worst time.

Desperate, Wesley hit a number on his phone, frantic to reach someone so he could call off the attack he had spent the past few days so carefully arranging. Vladimir had to be keeping her in one of the buildings the Russians controlled, and if it was one of the ones that Mr. Fisk had decided to target then –

Fire bloomed across the night sky. And again, and again, as their holdings went up in flames. Wesley hit the button to end the call. Stared. Had he just watched Heather die?

Sirens wailed in the distance, snapping Wesley out of his stupor. He dialed a different number. There was a chance that Heather was still alive, and if so, they had to act fast. "Detective Blake, I have a priority assignment for you."

* * *

 **AN:** The conversation between Claire and Matt comes mostly from episode 1-5, World on Fire. Thank you to everyone who has followed, faved, or reviewed! It means a lot to know others are enjoying this story too!


	7. Chapter 7

Heather coughed, hot air and smoke making breathing a struggle. Her ears rang from the sound of the explosion. The force of the blast had knocked the chair she was in on its side, and the tops of her wrists stung from where the zip ties keeping her tied to the chair dug into her arms. Her left side felt like a giant bruise from hitting the floor, but Heather didn't think anything was broken.

She jerked at her bonds, sending pain up her arms, and she finally noticed the zip ties had cut deep enough that she was bleeding. Heather grit her teeth and yanked again despite the pain, but there was no give in the restraints.

Vladimir staggered into view. His steps weren't quite straight and he was bleeding from a gash in his head, but he was on his feet and he had a knife in hand. Heather took a breath to scream, and had a coughing fit instead.

"I'm not done with you yet," Vladimir snarled. He crouched over her, and Heather braced herself for what was about to come. Instead of stabbing her like she expected, Vladimir used the knife to cut the zip ties keeping her in the chair. "You don't get to die this quick."

He dragged her to her feet and they were through the doorway before Heather's brain processed that he wasn't planning to kill her yet, but she didn't have time to dwell on the realization. The main area of the building was engulfed in flames. On her own, Heather would never have been able to find an exit, but despite his head injury and slightly wobbly steps, Vladimir seemed to know where he was going and his grip on Heather's arm as he dragged her along was like iron. Somehow, they made it to an exit, and then they stumbled outside into the cold night air.

Heather blinked, trying to get her eyes to adjust to the sudden darkness. The flames from the building offered some light, but the fire also made the shadows twist and turn in strange ways. Heather tripped over something, and Vladimir staggered with her, only barely keeping them both up. "Keep your feet," Vladimir snarled. "Or I'll change my mind and leave your body here for Fisk to find."

She flinched, his already furious expression made even more sinister by the blood that coated half his face. And then she had a thought.

 _That's a lot of blood. I think he's hurt worse than I am._

 _He's planning to torture and kill me anyway. I can't make things any worse for myself._

It didn't make her any less afraid. Terror still shrieked through her veins. But the thought sparked a sudden, stubborn unwillingness to walk passively to her own murder.

She didn't pause to plan, just tensed up and rammed her whole body into Vladimir's side. He lost his balance, but not his grip on Heather, and they both hit the ground hard. Heather froze a second, stunned, but Vladimir moved, rolling so he was on top of her.

The hand still holding the knife went in the air. "You damn bi-" Someone caught his arm before he could bring the knife down, dragging him off Heather. Vladimir let out a choked cry and Heather rolled away in the opposite direction.

She shoved herself up to her knees, head whipping around in an attempt to figure out what was going on. A few feet away, Vladimir was sprawled out on the ground, clearly unconscious, while another man crouched over him, one hand fisted in his shirt to hold him down, the other raised as if considering whether to hit him again.

 _It's him! It's the masked man!_

Tension drained from her, and her pounding heart slowed. A wave of relief washed over her. Maybe it was too soon to feel that way, but this man had saved her before, and Jason, and others too. His sudden appearance felt like a miraculous sign that she would survive this night after all.

He lowered his fist without hitting Vladimir again, his head turning in her direction. It felt like he was studying her intently, though between the shadows and the mask that covered the upper half of his face, Heather couldn't even begin to get a read on him.

"You're coming with me," he said. His voice was abrupt and gruff.

"Okay." The answer slipped out without thought, and for a second the man didn't move. Maybe he was as surprised by her quick answer as Heather was. But even when she paused to think it through, Heather couldn't see how she had any better options. She didn't know where she was, didn't have a way to contact anyone, and there was a very real possibility of other mobsters or criminals in the area that might kill her if they found her. The masked man had proved he was willing to protect her, even if she didn't understand exactly why. She wasn't about to walk away from him now.

The masked man nodded, then turned his attention back to Vladimir. He hefted the unconscious mobster over his shoulder as he stood, apparently intending to bring him along. Heather stood and walked over towards them, warily eyeing Vladimir. It didn't seem like he was going to wake up anytime soon, but Heather was hardly an expert on such matters.

"This way," the masked man said, leading her towards the exit of the alley they were in. Heather glanced around, taking a second to process where she was now the risk of getting killed had been reduced. The burning building looked like some kind of warehouse, and similar buildings seemed to box them in. They were somewhere in the warehouse district then.

She heard sirens drawing near, and the masked man caught her upper arm in hand, luckily missing any spots that were bruised. "Wait," he said, stepping to the side and gently tugging her along with him.

Heather expected the police car to whiz past the mouth of the alleyway, but it didn't, screeching to a halt instead as if the alley had been its destination in the first place. A second police car pulled in right behind it. The cops sprang out of the vehicles, and they spotted Heather and the others almost instantly, pulling out their weapons and yelling orders over each other.

It felt like her blood turned to ice at their aggressive approach, and it clicked in Heather's mind the cops probably had no idea what was going on. They probably thought all three of them were criminals, maybe even that they could be the ones who'd blown up the building, and under these circumstances, the cops were a danger too.

The masked man gently squeezed her arm, cutting through her rising panic and getting her attention. "Do as they say," he told her, his voice low and quiet. "Hands up, on your knees."

He let go of her arm, and Heather did as he instructed, slowly raising trembling hands and kneeling down on the ground. The masked man did the same, kneeling down and dropping Vladimir to the ground so he could also raise his hands. Vladimir groaned; the masked man hadn't been particularly gentle putting him down.

The cops drew closer, their weapons still trained on them. One of the cops focused in on Heather, his weapon lowering slightly. "Are you Heather Fisk?"

Her mouth worked for a moment, caught by surprise. How could they have any idea who she was? "Y-yes."

The cop holstered his weapon, though the other three kept theirs out and pointed at the masked man and Vladimir. "Don't worry ma'am, you're safe now," the cop told her, reaching out to help her back to her feet. She winced when he accidentally pressed down on a bruise. "We'll get you back to your brother."

… _What?_

"What about these two?" one of the other cops asked.

"You know what he said," the cop now leading Heather towards the squad cars said. "No witnesses."

 _No!_

Before the protest could make it past Heather's lips, the masked man was moving. One of the cops fired his gun, and Heather screamed at the sound, stumbling back as the cop that had been guiding her lunged back towards the fray.

The books Heather read almost always likened fights to a violent dance: elegant, choreographed, evenly matched, and somehow beautiful despite the violence. This was nothing like that. This was abrupt, and brutal, and fast, as the man flipped and kicked and the cops fell with sickening thuds. It took less than thirty seconds, then they were all down, the masked man standing over them, the slightly faster rise of his chest the only indication that it had taken any effort at all.

Heather stood where she was, hands pressed over her mouth, staring down at the fallen cops.

" _We'll get you back to your brother."_

" _You know what he said. No witnesses."_

The words bounced around her skull until she thought she might break. This was _Wilson's_ doing. Those cops were working for him, they'd have killed the masked man even after he'd saved her life, because Wilson had said _no witnesses,_ and oh, if that was their instructions, and if they'd been here _so fast_ after the explosion, then was the explosion Wilson's fault too, but _why_ , how _could he_ –

"Ms. Fisk. _Heather_."

Heather blinked, focused. She hadn't noticed the masked man move, but there he was in front of her, his hands on her shoulders steadying her.

"I know you're scared." His tone was softer than before, but still firm. "And I'm sorry, but this isn't the time. We've got to keep moving. Can you do that?"

 _He's right._

She wanted to break down, to curl in on herself and sob until next week. But she couldn't, not now. She had to keep going. She took a breath, and lowered her hands from her face. "Yeah – yeah okay. I can do it."

He gave her shoulders a light squeeze. "Good. Then let's go."

Heather followed after him as he retrieved Vladimir and led her away into the dark. She kept her focus on him and his calm, confident movements, hoping his confidence would bolster her failing courage. She wasn't sure where he was taking her, and she didn't bother asking. It didn't matter. The masked man was the only steady thing in her world at this moment. She'd follow wherever he went.

* * *

Matt led the way into an abandoned warehouse and up some stairs to the second floor, trying hard not to let Heather see how much effort it was taking. He ached from half healed injuries, his head was still ringing from the explosion, fatigue was pulling at him, and having to carry Vladimir helped absolutely nothing. But Heather was barely holding herself together, and Matt wasn't sure he could handle both Vladimir and Heather if the woman started having a panic attack or something.

He didn't blame her for being terrified, or for bordering on shock. He'd heard enough of Vladimir's conversation with her to finally put some pieces together. Fisk had murdered Anatoly, and framed Matt for it. Vladimir wanted revenge for his brother's death, and had kidnapped Heather to get at Fisk. Heather had apparently had had suspicions about Fisk being involved in illegal activities, but had had no idea of the actual depth of his crimes. This was an awful, ugly way for her to find out and Matt…

…Matt wasn't as sorry for her as what he maybe should have been. He didn't think she deserved anything that had happened to her tonight, and he wished he had been at her place in time to stop it. But as far as her distress at finding out about her brother, well. She'd been suspicious of Fisk, and from what Matt had heard, Heather had _actively_ _avoided_ finding out if her suspicions were correct.

So, no. As much as Matt might have wished that she'd never been kidnapped, that she hadn't been hurt, and her life never placed in danger, he didn't have much sympathy for her distress over finding out that her brother was a murderous criminal.

 _Vladimir is going to wake up soon._

He ducked into a mostly empty room. "Shut the door."

Heather did as he said, pushing the heavy door closed while Matt laid Vladimir on the ground, relieved to finally put the man down. Heather took a few steps towards them, but stopped several feet away, her arms curling around her torso. Matt tilted his head her way, assessing for a moment. The bleeding from her wrists had already slowed. Probably wouldn't need stitches after all then. Still scared, but calmer than she'd been before.

"What happens now?" Her voice wavered when she spoke.

Matt stood, intentionally looming over Vladimir as he began to stir. "I ask questions. I won't let him near you," he added, because he needed to ask questions from both of them, and didn't want Heather panicking when Vladimir woke up.

Vladimir groaned, in obvious pain from his many injuries. He shifted, trying to push himself up, and didn't even make it half an inch off the ground before his body gave out.

"Don't move," Matt told him. "You've been shot." He heard Heather's sharp intake of breath; she must not have realized that the shot that cop had fired back in the alley had actually hit a mark.

Vladimir snarled something in Russian, the words laced with pain, anger, and hate. In response, Matt kept his own tone light and uncaring. "That sounds bad, but I don't speak Russian."

Vladimir swallowed, and spoke again. "I am going to kill you for taking my brother from me."

Matt shrugged. "You've got the wrong guy. I don't kill people. Not even scumbags like you who deserve it." He kept an ear on Heather as he spoke. He didn't want her to buy into Vladimir's story and try to run or something. That was a headache he didn't need to deal with.

Her weight shifted, and her heartbeat picked up, but she didn't move or say anything. Good sign so far.

Vladimir let out a wet laugh. "You threw Semyon off roof. Put him in coma."

Heather's heart skipped a beat, but she still didn't move. Matt wondered if she regretted agreeing to come with him so easily now.

"Yeah. But he was still breathing, wasn't he?" Matt pointed out. It was a better fate than he'd deserved.

Vladimir shook his head. "Your mask. I found it on what was left of my brother."

Matt crouched over him. "I didn't kill your brother."

"Lies!"

"You think I'm the one that blew your operation to shit too?" He noticed Heather flinch at the question, but didn't acknowledge it. _Guess she put that one together after what happened with those cops._ She wasn't stupid then. Just in willful denial. "You were being played," Matt told him. "By Fisk."

Heather made a soft, wounded sound at Matt's words. It was enough to get Vladimir's attention. He turned his head. "You!" Vladimir started to try and push up off the ground again, but Matt shoved him back down with one hand, purposefully pressing down on injuries to keep him down.

"She's not your concern," Matt snapped.

Heather had taken a step back at Vladimir's movements, but froze when Matt restrained him. Still, she was poised to flee, if Matt didn't handle this carefully.

"You protect her," Vladimir snarled, "and still try to claim you're not one of Fisk's dogs?"

"I don't work for Fisk," Matt said, making no effort to hide the disgust he felt at the very suggestion. "Doesn't mean I'm going to let you hurt an innocent woman."

Vladimir let out another wet, disbelieving laugh. "Innocent? You think _anyone_ connected to Fisk is innocent? Even if she didn't participate in his activities, she never tried to stop him, did she?"

Heather flinched, a hand coming up to press over her mouth. Matt could smell the salt as fresh tears spilled from her eyes and ran down her face.

He didn't address Vladimir's question. It was just a rabbit trail really, irrelevant to what Matt wanted from him, and they didn't have time to waste. Police were no doubt hunting them down, and Matt had no idea how many of them might be working for Fisk. Even the ones that weren't would probably come in trigger happy, what with the explosions going on. Either way, Matt needed to get the information he wanted and get out.

"What matters," Matt said, "is that Fisk is trying to kill you, and I'm not. Pick a side."

Silence stretched out for several long seconds. "I choose my own."

Frustration flickered through Matt. Of course, he was going to be stubborn. Even if Vladimir believed that Matt didn't work for Fisk and wasn't the one who'd killed his brother, he still had plenty of reasons to hate Matt. But the moron didn't have choices, not if he wanted to live. "Not an option. Fisk made sure of that."

Vladimir held out a few more seconds, and then the tension left him. "What do you want?" he asked, despair underlining his voice.

Matt shifted his weight slightly, making sure he was ready to move at a moment's notice, because if Heather was going to try and run away, this was when it was going to happen, and he couldn't let her yet, for the same reasons he'd dragged her along with him. One, it wasn't safe. There could still be criminals about, and while she wasn't a target of the cops, avoiding wound up people with guns had a much better survival rate than running into them. Two, given the way things had escalated tonight, Matt _needed_ to ask questions, and he needed answers. He wouldn't hurt her; that was a line he refused to cross as she wasn't an active threat to anyone. But he was hoping that maybe after being confronted with her brother's criminal ways, that maybe she'd willingly answer some questions.

He was also hoping she wouldn't freak out and run once he answered Vladimir's question.

"I want Fisk on trial for everything he's done."

Heather's heartbeat took off like a startled rabbit, her muscles tensed up, and she stopped breathing. Matt almost moved, thinking she was going to bolt, but…she didn't. Everything he could read about her said she _wanted_ to run, yet she remained locked in place. Matt couldn't begin to guess why, but he'd take it. She slowly began to breathe again, as Vladimir chuckled, the sound turning into a wet cough.

"You are a fool," Vladimir said.

Matt shrugged. "Maybe. But you're bleeding out, so here we are."

Vladimir grimaced, his hand pressing down on his gunshot wound. He had lost a worrisome amount of blood. Not enough to kill him, and Matt didn't plan on letting him die, but he definitely needed medical attention and soon.

"And if I believe you," Vladimir asked slowly, "and give you what you want to know, what do I get out of it?"

"Payback," Matt said. It was the only thing stood any chance of appealing to Vladimir now.

Vladimir turned his head in Heather's direction. "I already had my plans for payback."

Heather flinched, one foot sliding back. Matt caught Vladimir's jaw and turning his head to face him instead. "Not an option." Heather stilled.

For a second Matt thought Vladimir was going to reply, but then his breath came out in a long sigh, his muscles went lax, and his heart rate slowed. "Vladimir?" No response. Matt let out a short curse and dug out the burner phone he'd gotten to contact Claire.

"Is – is he dead?" Heather asked, her voice shaky and horrified.

"Not yet," Matt said, punching the buttons to dial Claire.

 _Please pickup._

She did, after a few rings. "Please tell me all this isn't you dealing with the Russians." He could hear background noise behind her voice; sounded like she'd gone in to the hospital. He shouldn't be surprised. Claire was nurse, and too kindhearted to stay away when she knew how much they'd need her.

"Wasn't me," Matt said, "but I don't think you have to worry about them anymore."

"Did you call just to tell me that?" she asked. He heard the sound of a door and background noise got quieter. Good, she was getting to a place where she wouldn't have an audience. Matt was only too aware of his, though Heather wouldn't be able to hear Claire's side of the conversation.

"I need your help," Matt said. "I've got someone with intel on what I've been looking for, but he's been shot."

"Call 911," Claire said, pointing out the obvious solution.

"Can't," Matt replied. "Police are the ones that shot him."

She sighed, the sound staticky through the speaker. "You want me to come out to you?"

"No," Matt said. He didn't want her out there for a lot of reasons. "Just talk me through stabilizing him."

"…It's not as easy as it looks in the movies you know."

And it was a pity Heather was near enough to listen in, because that was a great opening for a joke that he couldn't take. "Not a lot of options."

Claire sighed again. "Alright. Is there an exit wound?"

Matt slid a hand underneath Vladimir's torso. "No. The bullet's still inside him."

"Any kind of first aid kit?"

"I'm in a warehouse. Abandoned." Good for avoiding notice, not so good for emergency triage.

"Tell me what's there, anything you can use."

"Hold on." He straightened, focusing on what he could notice about the objects in the room. "Uh, half a box of nails…broken glass…wood, duct tape, old roadside emergency kit, a lot of plastic sheeting."

He didn't think about Heather until her heard her shift, her head turning. Matt winced, realizing his mistake. The windows to the room were partially boarded up. He had no idea how much light might be filtering in from outside. There was every possibility that Heather couldn't see the things he was naming off. In which case, Matt just might have revealed that he observed the world with something other than sight.

 _Deal with that later. One emergency at a time._

"The kit," Claire said. "Are there any flares in it?"

There were. "Two," he answered, standing and moving to the kit.

"You're going to cauterize the wound."

"Shouldn't I take the bullet out first?" Matt asked, crouching down by Vladimir again.

"Remember what I said about this not being like the movies? If you cut him open and start digging around, you'll kill him. This way at least he has a chance of not bleeding out before you get what you need out of him and get him to a hospital."

"How do I do this?" Matt asked. He could guess, but he didn't want to accidentally make things worse.

"Light the flares, and hold it close to the skin until the entry wound seals. He'll scream, but don't let up."

"Got it. Thanks." Matt hung up, tucking the phone back in his pocket.

"What are you going to do?" Heather asked. She'd shifted towards him, her heart beating faster again. She was going to pass out when all of this was done.

"I'm going to cauterize the wound," he said, and she responded with a small noise of alarm. "You probably don't want to watch."

Matt lit the first flare, and it hissed and sizzled. Heather spun around, putting her back towards them. Matt pushed Vladimir's shirt up enough to uncover the wound, and held the flare near. The stench of burning fleshed curled up. The pain revived Vladimir, and he screamed, trying to recoil from the flare. Matt shifted, pressing a knee down on the man's chest to keep him still and using a gloved hand to cover his mouth and muffle the sounds. Heather made a distressed noise, her hands coming up to cover her ears.

Vladimir passed out again before Matt was done. Probably best for him. As the flare fizzled and died, Matt heard a noise, and his head snapped up. Footsteps. Someone was in the warehouse.

"Central post 41 – " Matt winced as he listened. A cop. Sounded young. Didn't matter, he was calling for backup, meaning they were in trouble.

"Is it o-"

Matt lunged, catching hold of Heather and pressing a hand over her mouth to silence her. Too late; he could hear the cop pause and then move with a new purpose. Heather was trembling, her hands holding onto his wrist. "Sorry." He kept his voice low and soft so as not to carry. "Someone's here; don't talk." She stilled, her grip on his arm relaxing.

The cop was on the stairs. They didn't have much time. Matt dropped his hand and nudged her towards some empty wooden crates that had been left behind. "Hide."

She did as he said, scampering over to the crates and ducking down behind them. Matt moved out of the way. There was nothing to do about Vladimir, sprawled out on the ground as he was. Matt would just have to make use of him as a distraction.

The heavy door slowly opened and the cop eased in, starting to do a sweep of the room. His light landed on Vladimir almost immediately, and like Matt had hoped, all the cop's attention focused in on him. "Show me your hands!" the cop demanded.

Heather flinched at the cop's words, and Matt tensed, worrying for a moment that she might panic and dart out in sight. She didn't though; she just curled in tighter on herself.

"Show me your hands now!"

Despite the danger of their situation, Matt couldn't help but feel a tinge of exasperation at the cop's repeated demand. It ought to be obvious that Vladimir was unconscious. How the cop could miss it was beyond him.

Matt moved from his hiding place. "He can't hear you."

The cop whirled around, but Matt was ready for him, shoving his arm with the gun down and landing a solid blow on his jaw. The cop stumbled, and Matt knocked his feet out from under him. He landed hard on his back, and Matt dropped down, using his knee to pin him in place, and with one hand grabbing his wrist and twisting so the gun fell from his hand and clattered to the ground.

 _I've got him; now what do I do with him?_

The cop took a deep breath, about to yell, but Matt just shifted his weight forward so his knee pressed on his throat. "You're going to stay quiet," Matt told him. "When I take my knee off your throat, you're going to answer my questions, or this night will get a lot worse. Got it?"

The cop nodded frantically, and Matt shifted back so he could take a gasping breath. "Who do you work for?"

"The – the city of New York," he said.

Matt frowned, listening. The cop's heartbeat seemed steady, but he needed to be sure. "I'm going to ask you again, and I want you to think about your answer. Who do you work for?"

"The city of New York," he said again, without any hesitation. "I got two months on the job."

His heart was still steady. And two months…two months probably wasn't enough time for Fisk to get to him. More than likely, this cop was clean.

Matt reached over, unhooked the guy's radio and held it towards him. "Call central. Tell them it was a false alarm; no need to send backup."

"I do that," the cop said, "you let me walk?"

"Eventually." He couldn't risk letting the cop go off right away. He could call for backup again as soon as he was out of the building. Matt needed more time than that. But if the cop sent out that this had been a false alarm, then maybe Matt could make this complication work in his favor.

The cop nodded. Slowly reached up and took the radio. "Central post 41."

"10-4, post 41," came the crackling response.

The cop hesitated. His sudden deep breath was the only warning Matt had. "Second floor, perp in mask, wounded civilian!"

Matt snatched the radio, and a swift blow to the head knocked the cop out. The radio crackled again, dispatcher giving out information to other units. Frustration swelled. This place was going to be swarmed with police in a matter of minutes, and even the ones that weren't working for Fisk were going to think he had hostages, and that one of those hostages was a cop. All of them would be out for his blood.

 _This night keeps getting worse._

Sirens were already getting closer. _Now what?_ If he were on his own, he could sneak out before the cops had a chance to pen him in, no problem. But he wasn't on his own. With Vladimir and Heather in tow, there was no way Matt could make it out of there, not with cops this close.

Heather moved out from behind the crates, her movement slow and hesitant as she came towards him. "They're…they're going to try and kill you again, aren't they?"

"Yeah," Matt said shortly, because it was true. He could hear cars parking in front of the building already. He needed to rethink his strategy. He wasn't going to be able to get everything he'd originally wanted from this night; the way things had gone, it was no longer possible.

His most important source of information was Vladimir. Heather could definitely tell him things about Fisk that would be useful to know, but she didn't know his criminal empire, and Vladimir did. Besides, he knew where Heather lived and worked. She'd be easy enough to locate later. Vladimir would be harder to get to. His goal then, was getting away with Vladimir so he could get useful information from him, and making sure Heather was returned safely. He also had to do something about the unconscious cop at his feet.

A plan formed, and Matt motioned for Heather to move closer. "Come here, please."

She hesitated, but once more surprised him by doing as he asked. He still couldn't quite figure out why she kept listening to him so willingly, but this wasn't the time to ask. Once she was close enough, he caught her left arm and snapped the cop's cuffs around her wrist, careful to leave it loose enough that she'd be able to keep it from aggravating her injury. Then he attached the other cuff to the cop's right hand. Heather had to quickly sit down beside him to keep the dead weight of his arm from pulling on her.

"What – why?" she asked.

Matt shrugged. "Being handcuffed to you will keep him out of my way. And it'll make it easier for you to get out of here without some trigger-happy cop accidentally shooting you." He found the keys on the cop's belt and pocketed them, to make sure he'd have to get to the other cops to get uncuffed from Heather. "You'll have to wait for him to wake up."

Vladimir stirred, coming awake again. He turned his head, observing them. "You've been busy."

Matt turned his way. "Building is surrounded. And more are coming more coming." He reached out and picked up the cop's gun, walking away from Heather and the cop and making quick work of taking the weapon apart.

"We could have used that," Vladimir said as the pieces fell to the floor.

"I'm not big on guns." Matt scooped up the metal pipe he'd been going for before moving near the window where he could get a better focus on what was happening outside.

"Ah, metal stick," Vladimir said, sarcasm dripping from every word. "Much better."

It was less likely to kill people, so yes, Matt preferred it.

Vladimir groaned, his hand moving towards the gunshot wound. "What did you do to me?"

"Cauterized the wound with a road flare," Matt said.

"You burned me?" He sounded genuinely shocked.

"I had to stop the bleeding somehow," Matt answered. "Bullet is still inside you though. Wouldn't move around much if I were you."

"Do you expect me to say thank you?" Vladimir asked.

Matt shifted away from the window, walking back towards Vladimir. There was nothing good happening outside; just more people arriving.

"If I didn't need you alive, we wouldn't be having this conversation," Matt told him. He didn't expect or care about any sort of gratitude from Vladimir over the situation.

He let out a laugh that turned into another cough. "So, you'd stand there and let me die, but you won't kill me yourself. Is that where you draw the line?"

The words were barbed, and they sank deep. _I wouldn't actually have let him…I wouldn't. I just need him to think…I don't let people die._

Matt pushed down the uncertainties. This was not the moment to wonder. It wasn't the moment to doubt. Vladimir was still a shark, even wounded, and Matt couldn't let him sense any weakness.

He crouched down in front of him. "Tell me what I want to know about Fisk."

"…You think you're different? From me? From him?" Vladimir shook his head. "You'll get there. Sooner or later. We all do, men like us."

He had no way to know that his words echoed messages Matt had heard in his past, insistences that the only way to stop enemies was to kill them. _No. I won't believe it. I won't let it be true._

"Fisk just took out your entire operation," Matt said. "He may not own all the cops, but he owns enough that you won't make it into a prison cell. Right now, I'm your only shot at getting out of this building alive."

Facts. Just facts. If there was anything rational left in Vladimir after losing everything, the appeal of facts might work.

Seconds dragged by. Precious seconds when there wasn't time to waste. But finally, Vladimir spoke again. "His lapdog came to us first. Told us his employer had taken note. He complimented our business. Invited us to be a part of something bigger. To expand. If we entered into an agreement."

Matt held his eagerness in check. _Finally_ , he was getting answers. "What did Fisk offer?"

"Police looking the other way. Aid from politicians. Access to the Chinese and their heroin."

A far wider network than Matt had guessed he'd have. "He's working with the Chinese?"

Vladimir sighed. "You really don't know anything, do you?"

He didn't. He hadn't started this with the intent of trying to take down organized crime. His goals had been much smaller. Just protect the individuals that needed help. Really, he'd stumbled into the organized crime thing, but once he had, Matt couldn't make himself look the other way. He had to try and do something about it, especially if no one else was going to. With the kind of backing that Fisk had – political, police, and other criminals – it wasn't likely that anyone would move against him. So Matt had to.

"I want names," Matt said. "Everything you know about them and how they connect to Fisk."

"There's only one name that matters," Vladimir said. "The man who can tie it all together."

"Who?" Matt asked.

"You need the money man," Vladimir told him. He turned his head, spat a wad of blood. "One man. He handled the money for all of us."

"Who is he?" Matt asked again. He couldn't keep the eagerness from his voice this time. One name, and he'd have the key to taking down not just Fisk, but many of the major players in Hell's Kitchen's crime world.

"We were going to rule this city," Vladimir mused.

"Vladimir, the _name_ ," Matt snapped. He didn't have time to let Vladimir reminisce.

"His name is…" A phone started ringing. Loud and shrill and cutting through the quiet. The sound came from inside Vladimir's jacket. The Russian slowly reached up and tugged it out. "Huh. It is Fisk."

Heather drew in a sharp breath, abruptly reminding Matt of her presence. He'd been so focused on finally getting information, he'd nearly forgotten that she was still there. Her heart took off like a startled rabbit once more, reasserting her strongly in his notice.

Matt took the phone from Vladimir and flipped it open. He held it up to his ear and waited.

A deep, gravelly voice came through the speaker. "I want you to know that whatever harm has been done to Heather, I will unleash on you a hundredfold."

"I haven't hurt her, Fisk," Matt said dryly. "Unlike you. Pretty sure the worst of her injuries are from your bomb."

That silenced him a moment. "Let me speak to her."

Matt turned slightly towards her. She was trembling, as panicked as she'd been at any point this night. "I'm not sure she wants to talk to you."

Heather bit her lip hard enough to draw blood. She shook her head, the motion jerky.

"You will not keep her from me!"

"I don't need too," Matt told him. "Like I said. She doesn't want to talk to you."

A hopeful sign, actually. Maybe this withdrawal meant that later, when Matt came back around to ask Heather more questions, she'd be willing to answer them.

"If you are planning to threaten her to get to me – "

"I'm not." Anger churned inside him. "I'm not like you. I don't hurt innocent people to get what I want." Heather cringed. Matt didn't care.

"You know _nothing_ about what I want. I will make this city a better place!"

"Not for the people you killed, or who's lives you've ruined." He stood, too much angry energy coursing through him now to remain still. Matt paced.

"Life isn't a fairy tale. Sacrifices have to be made."

Sacrifices, he called them. Like they weren't talking about people. As if somehow they didn't _matter_. "I'm going to find you, and I'm going to make you pay for what you've done."

"No. You won't."

The breathing pattern of the cop cuffed to Heather changed. He was about to wake up, and now was not the opportune time. Matt crossed over to them, knelt down with a knee on his chest to keep him in place, and put a hand over his mouth to keep him quiet.

Shots rang out outside, and the cop jerked to proper wakefulness. Heather yelped when the cop's movement yanked on her arm, and he went still.

"What did you just do?" Matt demanded.

"It's not what I did," Fisk replied. "It's what you did. You just blew this city to hell. You just murdered cops. They will rip you apart for me."

Matt wanted to protest that no one would believe he was responsible, but…they would, wouldn't they? He wore a mask, worked in the shadows. People didn't know anything about him, but they didn't even know Fisk existed. And if Fisk had control of politicians and police, then it wasn't a stretch to think he had people in the media too. Matt would be public enemy number one.

"And if you are thinking about changing your mind, and harming Heather," Fisk said, "know this. I will find everyone that you have ever cared about, no, everyone you have ever been _acquainted_ with, and they will all die."

Matt believed him, that he would try, but the threat wasn't necessary. This would change the city's perception of him, but that didn't mean it changed Matt.

He flipped the phone shut. There was nothing more to say. Nothing he could hope to gain by trying to continue to talk to Fisk. He needed to move. If Fisk had just killed three cops, the rest wouldn't wait much longer before charging in for Matt.

Matt focused on the cop. "I'm going to let you go. You'll notice that your cuffed to Heather here, and if you check, you'll find you don't have your keys. Take her outside. You might want to radio first, so no one shoots you." Maybe. Fisk had just proved he was willing to kill cops. But maybe being attached to Heather would prove to be as much a shield for him as he was for her.

He let go of the cop and moved away, back towards Vladimir. The cop didn't move for a second, possibly suspecting a trap. He sat up and looked Matt's way. Matt jerked his head towards the door. "Go!"

The cop stood, helping Heather to her feet as well. She was still shaking, her heart still pounding. They left the room.

"Now what?" Vladimir asked.

Matt listened to the echo of their steps as they went down the stairs, the cop whispering hasty assurances to Heather that she would be fine.

"We survive."

* * *

 **AN:** Thank you so much for the feedback last chapter! It was so appreciated! While I didn't have time to respond, I will say that the reviews were a big part of what motivated me to get this chapter done so quick!

You may recognize pieces of this chapter from episode 1-6, Condemned. I hope my version is different enough that you enjoyed it. And if you're wondering what exactly is going through Heather's mind now, don't worry. You'll find out next time :)


	8. Chapter 8

As Heather and the cop she'd been cuffed to – Officer Sullivan, he'd introduced himself – drew near to the warehouse exit, her steps faltered. They shouldn't have. She should want to be out of this mess; she _did_ want to be out of it. But every step she took now took her further from the masked man, and rational or not, Heather couldn't help but feel like every step away from him was a step closer to danger.

"We're almost there, Heather," Officer Sullivan said. "You're going to be fine." He was trying to be helpful and reassuring. There was no way he could know how wrong he was.

They stepped through the door together, Officer Sullivan calling out to let the crowd of police outside know who they were. There were more than just police waiting for them though; Heather spotted news vans, cameras, and ambulances. She saw a figure on a gurney, covered with a sheet and being loaded in the back of an ambulance, and her knees went weak. She remembered the gunshots, remembered the masked man's frantic _"What did you just do?"_ And she knew.

 _Wilson had more people killed._

She couldn't begin to understand _why_. Heather hadn't been able to hear Wilson's half of the conversation, only the masked man's. But Heather couldn't see how Wilson could even begin to have an explanation that would be satisfactory for all of this.

Heather wanted everything to just _stop_. She needed time to breathe, to cry, the clear her head so she could just _think._ The world didn't listen to her silent pleas. People rushed to them, barking questions, uncuffing her from Officer Sullivan, guiding her along away from the building. Heather didn't absorb anything that was said. It was all she could do to hold onto the tattered shreds of her self-control and not break down.

She was deposited by one of the ambulances where EMTs were quick to tend to her, bandaging the cuts on her arms, checking her over, asking questions that she somehow managed to stammer out answers to. One of them draped a blanket around her shoulders, and Heather clutched the edges, pulling it tight around her like it was some kind of shield, like it could keep the world out.

"Heather!"

Her head snapped up at the sound of a familiar voice calling out her name. She spotted James, pushing his way through the crowd towards her. Her fingers clutched the blanket tighter and she hunched in on herself. James was Wilson's personal assistant, his right hand. James was the one that Vladimir had called to pass along the news of her kidnapping. He was _part_ of this insanity.

James's face was creased with worry as he stopped in front of her, but he addressed the nearby EMT. "Is she alright?"

Alright? Was she _alright_? How could he even ask something like that? She'd been kidnapped, almost murdered, abruptly confronted with the worst of Wilson's crimes. How was she ever supposed to be _alright_ again?

"Are you family?" the EMT asked.

"A friend," James replied. "I'll be taking her home."

"No!"

The word escaped Heather with enough force to startle all three of them. She hadn't planned to say it, but now that she had, she wasn't going to back down from it. While there were plenty of things she hadn't known about her brother, Heather did know him well enough to be sure that James had no plans of actually taking her home after the events that had happened this night. No, Wilson would have told James to take her to him, and Heather couldn't face him. Not yet, not after all this. She was too brittle. She didn't know what she might do if she actually came face to face with Wilson right now.

"No," Heather repeated, volume lower, but her voice no less insistent. "I'm not going anywhere with you."

"Heather, please," James started, but the EMT moved, inserting himself between James and Heather.

"Sir, I think you need to leave," the EMT said. James stiffened at the interruption, shoulders squaring back. The EMT was several inches shorter and a bit leaner than James, but he showed no signs of being intimidated, and his voice left no room for argument. "If you don't, I'll be forced to have the cops remove you."

James held his stare for several long seconds, before finally breaking away to let his glaze flick over Heather. In the light spilling out from the back of the ambulance, his expression seemed calculating. "Very well." He turned and walked away, and Heather quickly lost sight of him in the crowds.

"Thank you," she said softly.

The EMT turned towards her and shrugged. "As long as you're in my ambulance, you're my responsibility." The interaction had cleared her head enough that Heather finally noticed his name tag – Alfred Williams.

"I still appreciate it, Mr. Williams," Heather said.

He just shrugged, his dark brown eyes assessing her. "You seem more responsive now. Not sure you heard anything I said earlier, so I'll repeat it. You're not hurt too bad, considering. Mostly scrapes and some nasty bruises. Still, I recommend that you aren't alone for the next twenty-four hours or so, just to be on the safe side. Got anyone you can call?"

Normally, Heather would call Wilson after something awful like this, but he clearly wasn't an option. Her mind shifted to her friends. Dominique and Peter had two small children, and doubtless seeing Heather like this would only serve to frighten the kids, so Heather dismissed that idea. Becky stayed with her fiancé just as often as Ethan stayed with her, so there was no way of knowing if he was around tonight or not, and Heather didn't know him well enough to be comfortable with him seeing her like this.

 _It'll have to be Maria then._

"Yeah," Heather said. "But, um, I don't have a phone on me." Probably still in her purse on her couch, unless the people kidnapping her had decided to take it. It seemed unlikely.

Williams pulled a phone out of his pocket and held it out to her. Heather took it with another word of thanks and typed Maria's number in, glad for the caution that had led to her memorizing all her most important phone numbers years ago. She just hoped that Maria would be willing to answer an unfamiliar number calling her in the middle of the night.

"Hello?" Maria's voice had the scratchy tone of someone woken from a deep sleep, and it was the most beautiful sound that Heather had ever heard. Tears sprang to her eyes again, and Heather had to swallow before she could speak.

"Maria, it's Heather," she said. "I'm sorry for calling like this."

"What's wrong?" Maria asked, sounding far more awake than she had seconds ago. "What do you need?"

"If you can, I need you to come get me," Heather said. She could hear muffled sounds in the background, probably Maria getting dressed.

"Of course. Where are you?"

Heather realized that besides the general category of warehouse district, she didn't know. She looked to Williams. "Um, what address can I give her?"

Williams told her, and Heather repeated it for Maria. "I'll be by one of the ambulances."

Maria drew in a sharp breath. "Heather, what's going on?"

Heather bit her lip. "Not over the phone. Please. I'll explain later."

"…Okay. I'm on my way."

Heather returned the phone to Williams. "Thank you for letting me use it."

"No problem," he said, slipping the phone back into his pocket.

A man approached them, tall and imposing, the badge on his belt identifying him as police. Heather tensed as he came near. Was this man working for Wilson too?

"Ms. Fisk," he said, "I'm Detective Blake. Are you doing alright?"

"I'll be fine," Heather said stiffly. What else could she say?

"That's good," he said. He fished a business card out of his pocket and held it out to her. Heather took it automatically. "I'm sure you don't feel up to it now, but I will need to get a statement about tonight's events from you. Let me know in the next day or two when you're ready."

Heather nodded, feeling stiff and robotic. How was she supposed to make a statement about what had happened? What could she tell them? If she told them everything, what would happen to Wilson?

" _I want Fisk on trial for everything he's done."_

She needed time to _think_.

"If you need a ride, I can have a car take you to your brother," Detective Blake offered.

Heather stared at him, feeling lightheaded. _Oh._ That answered her question of whether Blake worked for Wilson then. And the question of what would happen to Wilson if she told Detective Blake everything.

"No, thank you. A friend is on the way to pick me up." Heather purposely didn't mention Maria's name, or where they were going. Let Detective Blake assume the friend was someone who worked for Wilson, someone that would take her to him. That was fine by Heather.

Black clad figures spilled from the warehouse door, catching Heather's attention. It was SWAT people. She hadn't noticed them entering the building in the first place. They must have gone inside in the moments immediately following her and Officer Sullivan getting out.

A tremor went through her.

" _They're…they're going to try and kill you again, aren't they?"_

" _Yeah."_

Detective Blake had started to turn back towards the other police, so Heather spoke up quickly. "Detective, did they – did they find them?"

He turned back to her as she spoke, but he didn't answer right away. "We got Vladimir, but the masked man got away. You don't need to worry about him though. We'll get the bastard, I promise."

Heather did her best not to let the relief show on her face. "Thank you, Detective."

He nodded. "If you need anything at all, Ms. Fisk, just let me know."

 _Thank goodness, he got away._

She was well aware of the debt she owed him. The masked man had gone out of his way more than once now to keep her safe, even though there was no particular reason why he should. Even though there were reasons as to why he maybe shouldn't.

" _Innocent? You think anyone connected to Fisk is innocent? Even if she didn't participate in his activities, she never tried to stop him, did she?"_

Vladimir would never know it, but those words wounded her deeper than anything else that had happened to her this night. Each one was barbed, and they hooked themselves into Heather's heart and mind and refused to be budged.

" _You think anyone connected to Fisk is innocent?"_

"… _she never tried to stop him, did she?"_

Heather closed her eyes, tried to push the thoughts away. If she kept thinking about it, she'd brake down right her sitting on the back of the ambulance, and this wasn't the time. It was coming, but not yet.

It was hard to keep track of how much time was passing when Heather was focusing on keeping her mind blank. But enough time passed that all the media people started drifting away, and as they were going a cab pulled up. It had barely stopped moving before the back door was flung open and Maria jumped out. She spotted Heather right away and rushed to her.

Heather let the blanket drop with a short cry, slipping off her spot on the back of the ambulance and flinging her arms around Maria as soon as the other woman was close enough. Maria hugged her back, and it hurt, but Heather didn't care.

"What _happened_? Are you going to be okay?"

A few rebellious tears slipped free at Maria's questions, and Heather pulled away enough to swipe under her eyes. "I'll be okay. It looks worse than it is." Probably not true. Heather had no idea what she looked like right now, but everything ached and throbbed. It didn't matter. She wanted to reassure Maria anyway.

Maria looked unconvinced, but didn't stand there to argue about it. She kept an arm looped around Heather and guided her to the taxi instead. "Come on. Are we staying at your place or mine?"

It was such a relief that Maria didn't make her ask for the company. "Yours, please."

They got in the cab, and Heather leaned her head back against the seat, closing her eyes as Maria gave instructions to the cabbie. The ride back to Maria's apartment was quiet. Heather knew questions were coming, but thankfully Maria was waiting to ask them.

The ride passed in a blur, and before Heather knew it, they were at Maria's building. Maria got her inside, up the elevator to the third floor, and then inside her apartment. Heather paused near the door, letting her gaze drift over the open space of Maria's apartment, a space as familiar to Heather as her own home.

"Heather," Maria said, catching her attention. Heather blinked as she focused on her friend, noticing for the first time how Maria's hair was a ruffled mess, how she wasn't wearing any makeup, that she'd actually left her apartment in a sweatshirt, all of it evidence that she'd rushed to help Heather as fast as she could.

A sob escaped. Maria wrapped her arms around Heather again, guided her to her small couch. Heather leaned into her when they sat, burying her face in Maria's shoulder as Maria held her and murmured words of comfort. She trembled as she cried, finally releasing all the pent-up tension and fears the night had brought. Eventually, Heather's sobs faded to whimpering hiccups, and then to silence. There was a large damp spot on Maria's sweatshirt by the time Heather was done, but for once Heather was too overwhelmed to feel embarrassed.

"Okay," Maria said. "I think it's time for you to sleep. I won't worry about answers until you wake up. Sound good?"

Heather pushed up off of Maria and ran a hand over her face. "Yeah. Thanks."

Maria loaned her a pair of pajamas, though Heather could have just as easily fallen asleep in her own clothes. She was out almost as soon as her head touched the pillow.

* * *

"What do you mean, she refused to come with you?"

Wesley considered his words carefully before answering Wilson's question. Heather had always been a delicate subject for him, but never so much as in this moment. "She was upset, and said she did not wish to go with me. The EMT asked me to leave. There was no way to press the matter without creating a scene. That would have only upset her more, so I thought it best to let Ms. Fisk have her way for now. One of her friends eventually came for her; Maria Ortega, I believe."

Wilson paced the floor of his living room, one hand fingering the cuff links on his shirt. "How badly was she injured?"

"Not as badly as she could have been, considering what she went through," Wesley said. There was no point in trying to soften this part. Undoubtedly, Wilson would see her for himself soon enough. Bruises had already been darkening on her face when Wesley had seen her, and he'd noted the bandages on her wrists. There were probably plenty more bruises that he hadn't been able to see since she'd been huddling under that blanket, but they couldn't be too bad since she hadn't been made to go to the hospital. "She was bruised, but she should recover just fine."

The scowl on Wilson's face deepened. "Vladimir should have suffered more for involving her."

Wesley agreed, but didn't bother voicing the sentiment.

Wilson's pacing came to a halt near a window, looking out over the city. "He's going to try and turn Heather against me, isn't he?"

There was no need to ask who Wilson was referring to.

"That seems a reasonable assumption, sir," Wesley said.

The masked man had claimed he had no intentions of hurting Heather, and so far, that seemed to hold true. But threatening her was not the only way to get at Wilson. Turning Heather against him would be a heavy blow all of its own.

Wesley would like to think it wasn't possible, that Heather wouldn't turn on her own brother. But Heather was such a soft, gentle soul, and far too delicate to truly accept the harsh realities of Wilson's work. Tonight would have been an unimaginably terrifying experience for her, and the masked man had been in the perfect position to set himself up as her savior. Wesley was all too aware of the kind of loyalty that situation could inspire. No doubt the masked man intended to use it to his fullest advantage.

 _What's the worst-case scenario, if she decides to betray us?_

She couldn't reveal anything about Wilson's criminal activities. Heather's lack of knowledge there was entirely deliberate. But that didn't mean she knew nothing of importance. Heather knew the location of several of Wilson's buildings, which would give the masked man access to people who _did_ have information, and of course she knew where Wilson lived, and if she told the masked man that, he could become a far more direct threat.

 _This is not an acceptable risk._

Part of Wesley's job was mitigating risk. This time at least, it wasn't difficult to conceive of a solution.

"Sir," Wesley said, "given the current circumstances, I believe it may be in the best interests of all involved to move Ms. Fisk out of Hell's Kitchen. She can be kept more than comfortable, and out of reach of anyone that might try to use her against you."

Wilson turned from the window to look at him. "Heather will never agree to go. I can't even convince her to move a couple blocks."

Wesley nodded. "Yes, sir. But I believe the situation may be desperate enough to warrant not giving her a choice."

Wilson shook his head, his hand moving again to worry his cuff link. "I don't like it. Heather is already upset with me."

"Given time and distance from this place, I am sure your sister will come to forgive you," Wesley said. He was confident that he was right about that; after all, the same softness that wouldn't let her accept Wilson's work would surely prevent her from holding a grudge for too long. "And it is for her own safety as well. The masked man might not hurt her, but there are those who would hurt her to get to you."

A moment of silence stretched out as Wesley waited for Wilson to come to a decision. Finally, Wilson nodded. "You are right, Wesley. We will move Heather from Hell's Kitchen."

* * *

Heather groaned when she woke up. She'd thought she hurt last night, but clearly that had only been the precursor to the true pain waiting for her today. Everything ached and throbbed, and if someone had told Heather a truck had hit her at some point and she just didn't remember it, she'd probably have believed them.

She opened her eyes and glanced around. The door to Maria's room was closed, and Maria no where to be seen. But when Heather listened, she could hear muffled voices beyond the door, and the recognized the sounds of her friends talking. Maria must have contacted Dominique and Becky at some point. Probably for the best. It saved Heather from having to call them for herself.

Heather sat up slowly, wincing at the aches and pains. This might be worse than that time she'd broken her arm in college. She glanced at the clock on Maria's nightstand and wasn't surprised to see that it was past noon already. Heather tossed the covers off and stood.

 _I'm at least going to shower before I go out there and face the inquisition._

She didn't have any clean clothes with her, but she knew Maria wouldn't mind loaning her some. Heather went to the dresser and found a pair of yoga pants and a sweatshirt before heading into Maria's bathroom.

Heather caught sight of her reflection in the mirror and froze. She knew she felt bad, and some part of her had realized she probably looked awful as well. But she hadn't mentally prepared herself for the image she made. Heather tilted her head, studying her face from different angles. There was dark bruising on the left side of her forehead and temple, and thin scratches she didn't remember getting, no doubt from when she'd fallen over in the chair. There was another bruise on her right cheekbone, from where Vladimir had hit her.

She let out a slow breath. "No amount of makeup is going to hide this." Heather set the bundle of clothes on the counter. "Might as well check out the rest of the damage."

Heather shrugged out of the pajamas Maria had loaned her. Dark bruises mottled her left arm and thigh, and there was a particularly tender spot on her rib cage where she thought her elbow might have jammed it when the chair fell over. More scrapes and bruises littered her shins. The right side of her body had the least damage overall, though it didn't feel like saying much.

"Not too bad, considering," Heather whispered, repeating the words of the EMT as she lightly trailed her fingertips over the bruises and scrapes. A true enough assessment, she supposed, if one was only looking at the physical damage.

Heather turned the shower on, letting the water get as hot as it would before she stepped in. Her skin reddened under the stream, and Heather carefully worked shampoo into her hair.

 _What am I supposed to do now?_

Wilson was a criminal. She couldn't deny it after what had happened, or pretend to herself that she hadn't been suspicious about his business for years. There had been a number of things that had suggested something wasn't quite right about his business, things that she'd desperately refused to acknowledge.

But even if she had acknowledged her suspicions, never in a million years would Heather have guessed that Wilson was capable of the things she'd seen. He'd actually killed people; or at least, had people killed. Either way, he was responsible for their deaths. She could hardly wrap her mind around it.

The Wilson that Heather knew was kind and generous. He was a protective and indulgent brother, and more of a constant in her life than her mother had been, and certainly a more constant figure than either of her stepfathers. He'd been a support for her when no one else had. She couldn't reconcile that image with everything that had just happened.

He was her brother, and even after the revelations of the night before, she still loved him.

 _I don't know what to do._

Was there even anything that she could do? Even if she knew the truth about Wilson, it wasn't like Heather could actually prove it. She only had her word, and maybe the word of the masked man, but Heather wasn't naïve enough to think the police would listen to a vigilante. Even if the cops would listen, apparently a bunch of them were on Wilson's payroll or something. Trying to turn Wilson in was probably useless.

Heather turned the water off, a numb weight in her chest. _I guess I don't need to stress over what I should do. I can't do anything at all._

Except maybe avoid Wilson for the rest of her life. That was the most appealing idea she'd had since she'd woken up.

Heather dried off and dressed, and now that she was clean, she felt as ready as she ever would to face her friends. She went into the living room, and as expected, she immediately spotted Maria and Becky on the couch, and Dominique in the armchair. They had been talking, but quiet fell over them when they saw Heather.

"Oh," Becky said. Then she was up off the couch and darting around the coffee table to wrap Heather in a gentle hug. "Are you okay? No, sorry, dumb question. Obviously, you're not okay. How bad is it?"

"Not as bad as it looks," Heather said. That was a lie; she pretty much did feel as bad as she looked. But her friends were going to worry enough, Heather didn't want to add to it. Becky ushered her to the couch.

"Are you hungry?" Dominique asked, leaning forward in her seat. "We've got food. Coffee too, if you'd like some."

She probably should be hungry – she hadn't eaten for a while now – but Heather didn't have an appetite at all. Coffee sounded wonderful though. "Coffee, please."

Dominique was out of her seat and in Maria's kitchen immediately.

"Sorry to hit you with a crowd so soon," Maria said. "But they saw the news this morning, so there was no avoiding it."

"News?" Heather asked blankly.

"Buildings blew up last night," Becky said. "Of course, it was on the news!"

Of course. Of course, Heather should have thought about that. There'd been crowds of media when she'd come out of the warehouse.

 _Oh, no. No, no, no._

There'd been crowds of media when _she_ had come out the warehouse, cameras in hand, and Heather hadn't paid the least bit of attention to them or what they might be reporting on.

"What are they saying about last night?" Heather asked.

Dominique came back in view, coffee cup in hand, and held it out for Heather. She took it automatically, her hands curling around the warm mug, but she didn't drink.

Maria gingerly rested a hand on Heather's shoulder. "They're saying that the Devil of Hell's Kitchen – that's what they're calling the masked man – blew up those buildings in an act of domestic terrorism. That he took you and a couple other people hostage, and that he murdered three cops."

Heather's mouth worked as she struggled to come up with a response. Finally, she choked out, "No. No, that's not – that's not what happened at all!"

How could they have everything so twisted? They were accusing him of Wilson's crimes –

 _Oh. Wilson._

He was covering his tracks by pinning everything on the masked man. It was so unfair. The masked man was risking his life to help, had risked his life to help Heather, and this was how he was repaid, by being branded a terrorist and a murderer.

 _This is wrong._

"Then what did happen?" Dominique asked.

Heather glanced between her friends. They were watching her, all warm concern, and Heather realized she couldn't tell them the truth. Not the whole truth at least. How could she? How could she admit to them that the real monster behind everything was her own brother?

But she couldn't let them think badly of the masked man either. Not after he'd put his life on the line for hers. She owed him her life, and that was a debt Heather couldn't just ignore.

She took a sip of coffee to buy herself a second to think. "The masked man didn't kidnap me. He saved my life. I – it was the Russian mob. They're the ones that kidnapped me. I think – I think it was for a human trafficking ring or something."

Heather took another sip of coffee and hoped they contributed the tremor in her voice to fear rather than lying. She tried to keep her tale as true as she could. The explosion happened, she got out of the building, the masked man rescued her from a Russian mobster. She left out the fact that the mobster had been the leader of the Russian mob, and that he'd targeted her specifically. She told them about the cops attacking, but left out that they'd planned to take her to Wilson, letting the omission imply that she'd been in danger too. She talked about going with the masked man because that was the safest option, mentioned he was trying to find out who was behind those explosions, that there seemed to be some other criminal gang involved. How he couldn't possibly have shot those cops because he hadn't even had a weapon.

She didn't mention how he'd planned to ask her questions about Wilson, or the phone call, or how Heather's presence hadn't been random at all.

"That's – that's awful," Becky said when Heather finished.

Heather laughed a little, though it wasn't the least bit funny. "That about sums it up."

Maria ran her hands through her hair. "But with what you're saying, that means that whoever blew up those buildings, he owns part of the police force, and definitely some of the media for them to report things that wrong. He's some kind of criminal kingpin or something."

Heather winced. Kingpin. She didn't like the word when used to reference Wilson. But it fit.

"Sounds about right."

Dominique shook her head, curls brushing her dark cheek. "This is insane. How could one person have that much power?"

"Money, probably," Becky said. "This stuff always comes down to money." She wrapped an arm around Heather's shoulders. "I'm just relieved you're going to be okay."

"The masked man won't be." Her friends stared at her, and Heather was nearly as surprised as them that the words had slipped out. But they had, and Heather couldn't bottle the thought back. "This…kingpin…he's painted a target on the masked man. The whole city will be after him after what happened. It's not right."

"Yeah," Becky said, "but there's nothing we can do about that."

Nothing they could do. Heather's grip on the mug tightened as the words bounced around in her head.

Nothing. Nothing they could do. Nothing she could do. Nothing. No way to help the man who had _saved her life_.

A spark lit in her, the same desperate stubbornness that had been unwilling to walk to her death without at least _trying_.

"I can tell the truth," Heather said. Not the whole truth; mentioning Wilson wouldn't work, for all the reasons she'd thought of before. But she could tell the edited version that she'd shared with her friends, the one that would at least show the masked man wasn't responsible for what had happened. "The media has already named me as being there, someone will want to talk to me."

"Whoa, wait a minute," Dominique said. She raised her hands in a slow down sort of gesture. "Just, think about this for a second. If you do that, you're going to be putting yourself right in the cross hairs of this kingpin person. You realize that?"

Heather did. And she couldn't tell them, but she also realized that she was probably the only person who _could_ , and survive. Even with everything else Wilson had done, there was no way he would ever hurt her. Not in a million years. And that meant she could help the masked man.

"I know," she said. "But he saved my life." Not just hers, either. He'd saved so many people, and he didn't deserve this. He didn't deserve any of it.

 _"...she never tried to stop him, did she?"_

The masked man had saved her. Now it was Heather's turn to try and save him.

* * *

 **AN:** And here is where things are going to start to shift! Wilson and Heather are both making plans, and they aren't going to mesh well.

If anyone is wondering, the whole Matt/Vladimir/warehouse mess ended pretty much the way it did in canon; they tried to get away in the underground tunnel, Vladimir gives Matt Owlsley's name at the last possible moment, Vladimir stays behind to slow the SWAT people while Matt gets away.


	9. Chapter 9

Heather's steps dragged slower than normal. Part of it was because she was still sore from everything that had happened, but if she was being honest with herself, part of her was having second thoughts about what she was about to do.

Dominique and Becky had spent a good chunk of time Sunday afternoon trying to talk her out of it, but Heather had been firm then. Resolute. She owed the masked man, and she was going to help him in the only way she could. Maria had stayed mostly quiet, until it became clear that Heather's mind wasn't going to be changed. Then she'd spoken up to give Heather a name.

" _If you're going through with this, then the person you need to talk to is Ben Urich."_

Maria didn't know the reporter personally, but apparently, he had some kind of reputation at Landman and Zack. Mostly as a thorn in the big partners' sides. He'd gone after more than one of Landman and Zack's clients in the past. So far as Maria could tell, he was only interested in getting to the truth, and he wasn't one to be intimidated.

" _You need a reporter this kingpin doesn't own. I'd bet money that Urich is your best option."_

Keeping Maria's endorsement in mind, Heather had made a point of looking Ben Urich up when she'd gone back home that night. She'd quickly found an article he'd written about the bombings, and she was a little surprised by the content. It was the fairest account she'd seen of the night. Just the facts, as Urich knew them. His article acknowledged the blame that was being pointed at the masked man while refraining from pointing fingers himself. Between the article and Maria's endorsement, Heather's decision to talk to Urich was settled.

But that had been last night, when Heather's resolve to tell the truth – or most of it – had been firm. Now it was morning, and with each step closer to the New York Bulletin's office, her resolve wavered. She'd had time this morning to think some more about the potential consequences of what she was planning.

For one thing, it had finally occurred to her that this might put her out in the spotlight. Heather had been mentioned in the reports already, but only as a minor footnote. Anyone who didn't know her probably wouldn't spare a thought to her involvement. But now she was going to share her own version of events, one that was going to contradict the popular narrative. People would notice. They'd notice _her._ And for the other thing, Heather had no idea how Wilson would react. She still didn't believe he'd hurt her, but he wasn't going to like this. He'd want to do _something_ , but for the life of her Heather couldn't figure out what that something might be.

Heather hunched into her coat. _Maybe this is a mistake._

 _"Innocent? You think_ _anyone_ _connected to Fisk is innocent? Even if she didn't participate in his activities, she never tried to stop him, did she?"_

Heather cringed as Vladimir's words echoed in her mind. If she backed down now, without even trying, everything he'd said would be right. She couldn't let him be right.

 _And I can't forget how much I owe the masked man, either._

He'd saved her life, he'd saved Jason's life, and how could she even _think_ about standing back and letting Wilson frame him as a terrorist and a murderer? It shouldn't matter what it might cost her. Heather needed to do whatever she could to help him.

Resolved, Heather perked up slightly as the building came into view. _Okay. I'm doing this. I'm really doing this._

She went in and found herself in a reception area, several chairs lining the wall and a desk immediately in front of the door with a secretary behind it. The office was mostly open, and Heather could see people bustling around in the large space behind the secretary.

The secretary eyed Heather. She knew she looked odd; her bruises were too dark to properly conceal with makeup, so in an effort to avoid stares Heather had bundled up more than the day's weather called for, with a beanie pulled low, the largest pair of sunglasses she owned, and a thick scarf piled up nearly to her nose. The only way she could have made it more obvious that she was hiding her face would be wearing a ski mask or something. Still, her clothing choice hadn't drawn much notice as long as she was outside. Heather had no real excuses to keep it all on in here, so she reluctantly tugged the scarf down so she could talk and took the sunglasses off. The secretary's eyes widened for a moment before she managed to get a professional expression back on.

"Good morning. I'm looking for Ben Urich. I don't have an appointment or anything, but um, is he available?" Heather asked. She fumbled a little as she tucked her sunglasses in her purse.

"I can check," the secretary said. Heather spotted her name tag, identifying her as Melissa Caldwell. "What name should I give him?"

"Heather Fisk."

The woman paused a moment. She probably recognized Heather's name in connection with the bombings. Luckily, she didn't say anything about it. "Of course. If you'll have a seat, I'll check."

Heather moved to the chairs and sat down. She couldn't relax, sitting nearer the edge of the seat than the back. Ms. Caldwell picked up the phone on her desk and hit a few buttons. Heather tried not to stare as she spoke quietly into the receiver. A moment later and she hung up, then looked over at Heather with a professional smile. "He'll be up in just a moment to get you."

"Thank you," Heather said.

The words barely made it out of Heather's mouth when she spotted door near the back of the room opening, and older black man coming out and moving their way. She recognized him from her brief bit of research. It looked like Ben Urich didn't plan to make her wait at all.

Heather stood as he walked up, hand clutching the straps of her purse. "Ms. Fisk," he greeted, holding out a hand to shake. "This is a surprise."

She shook his hand, smiling on reflex. She managed not to grimace when the motion made her bruises twinge. "Yes, well, I wanted to talk to you, if you have time. About what happened."

"Let's take this to my office." He led her back, and Heather did her best to ignore the looks she got when people noticed her. "Please, have a seat," he said as they entered his office, motioning to a chair.

As Heather sat, she glanced around the office. It had a lived-in look that was a testament to how long Ben had been working at the Bulletin. Framed articles hung on the wall, pictures and knickknacks sat on his desk.

Ben settled in the seat beside hers, rather than behind the desk. "Are you doing alright, Ms. Fisk?"

"I'm fine." She realized how ridiculous the words must seem as soon as they left her mouth. She'd seen what she looked like in the mirror that morning. "Or, I will be."

"Glad to hear it," he said. "What can I do for you today?"

And this was it. This was the moment. Heather took a long, slow breath. "I need to talk to you about the bombings. Everything the media is putting out is wrong and – and I need someone to tell the truth."

He didn't respond immediately, his dark eyes studying her from behind his glasses. Ben had a good poker face. Heather couldn't begin to guess what he might be thinking. She did her best to hold his gaze and tried not to fidget. After letting the silence draw out for a minute, he slowly nodded. "I'd like to hear about what you saw. Mind if I record the conversation?"

"That's fine," Heather said.

Ben stood and got a tape recorder from one of his desk drawers. He then returned to his seat, pressed a couple buttons on the recorder and set it on the edge of the desk between them. "You can start whenever you're ready, Ms. Fisk."

She nodded, glancing at the recorder nervously for a moment before refocusing on Ben. Heather gave him the same version of events that she'd told her friends. She was careful to make it sound like she'd been a chance victim rather than a specific target, and she never mentioned Wilson by name. Heather also made sure to emphasize how the masked man wasn't at fault for anything that had happened; not the bombings, not the shootings, and he'd only fought those cops after realizing they were planning to kill him. The tale came out smoother this time, compared to when she'd told her friends.

Ben didn't interrupt her once while she spoke. He just watched and listened, letting Heather get all the words out. When she finished, he reached over and clicked the recorder off. Heather wasn't sure how to interpret that action.

"Do – do you believe me?" she asked.

"I do," he said. "It fits."

 _Fits? Fits what?_

Before she could ask, Ben was speaking again. "Ms. Fisk, why do you want this story told?"

The question stumped her. Heather had mentally braced herself for the idea that he might not believe her, that he might ask for more details. But of all the questions she'd imagined he might ask, _why_ had not been one of them. She didn't know how to tell him why, not without bringing up Wilson, or Vladimir, or the accusation that had sunk in and latched on to her.

"… _she never tried to stop him, did she?"_

But there was another reason she could offer, and hopefully it would be enough. "This isn't the first time the masked man saved my life," Heather said. She refused to call him Devil of Hell's Kitchen, because he wasn't a devil. Not to her. "A couple weeks ago, a guy tried to mug me. The masked man stopped him. And I'm not the only person he's helped." She thought of Jason, back in her classroom, happy and healthy and recovering from his ordeal. God only knew what might have happened if the masked man hadn't saved him.

"He's not a terrorist, Mr. Urich," Heather said. "He's not a murderer. He's a man who's decided to he'd risk his own life to save other people, and I can't sit back and do nothing while the city tries to crucify him."

"I see," Ben said. He leaned forward slightly in his seat. "You do understand that if I run this story, your life could be in danger? You're trying to expose the existence of this kingpin as you called him, and he isn't going to like that. He might decide you're too big a risk and have you removed, and police might not be quick to help you after you've accused them of being corrupt."

"Don't worry about me. I'll be okay." It was the first thing that Heather felt reasonably confident in. No, Wilson wouldn't like this. He wouldn't like it at all. But he _wouldn't_ hurt Heather. The more she thought about it, the more it seemed like there wasn't anything he could do about it. Not once the story was out there.

Ben studied her again, and this time it was a little less of a struggle to stay firm under his gaze. Finally, he nodded. "Okay. I'll speak to my editor, see if he'll let me run the story."

"Is there a chance he won't?" Heather asked.

"There's always a chance," Ben said, "but I'd be very surprised if he nixed it." He stood from his seat, and pulled a card out of his jacket pocket. "Here's my information, if you need to get in touch with me again. And I know you said you'll be okay, but do me a favor and be extra careful."

Heather stood. "I will." Ben escorted her outside, where Heather quickly slipped on her sunglasses and tugged her scarf up to hide her face.

 _I can't believe I really just did that,_ she thought as she walked away. She felt a weird mix of nervous and relieved, and now all she could do was go home and wait to see the results of her actions.

* * *

Ben wasn't the least bit surprised when Mitchell approved the story. It was a huge scoop. Mitchell wanted to do a special run to get it out before any other news source got wind of it. Ben had a feeling they didn't need to worry about that.

When he made it back to his office, he didn't start working on the story right away. Instead, he walked behind his desk and paused, considering a portion of wall blocked from easy view by a bookshelf. Playing cards were pinned up, with strings connecting them. It wouldn't mean much to anyone else, but for Ben it was all different pieces of a puzzle, all leading to the card at the top. The king of diamonds, meant to represent the new power player in Hell's Kitchen's underworld. The one Ben had so far had no luck pinning down.

But now Heather Fisk had entered the picture and inadvertently given him another piece to work with. There was no doubt in Ben's mind that the kingpin Heather had talked about was the same person at the top of the Union Allied mess he'd been looking into with Karen. Two people with that kind of power and influence operating at the same time in the same place? Not likely.

He opened a drawer and flipped through some cards until he found the one that he wanted. The joker. He pinned it up next to the king of diamonds. "You're not as subtle as you think, Ms. Fisk," Ben murmured.

Decent enough to fool the average joe probably. But for someone used to digging to get information out of people? Not so much. It hadn't escaped Ben's attention that she'd been at her most confident when she'd insisted that she would be okay. He also hadn't missed the way she'd kept her story vague when it came to explaining how she'd ended up kidnapped by the Russians in the first place.

Ben had enough experience piecing stories together to figure part of this one out. Somehow or another, Heather was connected to this kingpin. Probably a close connection, for her to be so sure of her safety despite turning on him.

 _Which begs the question of why?_

Was it just simple gratitude towards the man who'd saved her life as Heather had claimed? Or was there some other plot going on? Ben wasn't sure, but he was determined to find out.

First, though, he had a story to write.

* * *

Matt was counting down the minutes until he could leave his office. He wasn't normally quite this eager to leave, but he had a long to do list for tonight.

Vladimir had waited to the last possible moment, but he'd finally given Matt the name of Fisk's money man: Leland Owlsley. Matt had spent most of his Sunday researching him, and he'd been pleased to discover that he wasn't a ghost like Wilson Fisk had been. Matt found quite a bit of useful information, including where he worked, and he was planning to pay him a visit.

But before he tacked down Owlsley, Matt wanted to talk to Heather. He'd considered going to her place the night before, but ended up deciding against it. After what she'd been through, Matt figured she had earned at least one night of rest.

Plus, Matt wasn't really sure how she was going to respond to him showing up at her home. She'd cooperated willingly enough the other night, but that had been when people were trying to kill her and Matt had been trying to keep her alive. This was a different situation. This time, Matt would be the one encroaching on her space, looking for more information that might help him put her brother in jail.

He was cautiously hopeful that she'd be willing to talk to him, but there was no way to know until he got there. Matt was distracted from his thoughts by the sound of Foggy's footsteps coming into the room.

"Hey, have you guys seen this?" he asked, waving a newspaper through the air. Karen looked up from the documents she was going over at the end of the table she and Matt were working at.

Matt was unable to resist making a jibe. "Well, it sounds like paper, but I assume you're referring to what's on the paper."

Foggy pointed a finger at him. "You know what, I'm letting that one go because this is more important. The Bulletin ran a special. Somehow they managed to get an interview with Heather Fisk, you know, the woman that was one of the hostages during the bombings."

It took every ounce of will power that Matt had not to visibly react to Foggy's news. _What?_

The legs of Karen's chair scrapped over the floorboards as she stood and snatched the paper out of Foggy's hand. "Seriously? Let me see."

Matt carefully leaned back in his chair. _She actually talked to a reporter?_ He hadn't pegged her as the kind of person that would willingly talk to reporters. He'd figured she'd stay holed up in her apartment after everything, or maybe stay with a friend. Not have conversations with the media. _What did she tell them?_

Foggy was talking. "She's claiming that everything the media has put out about the situation is wrong. That the Devil of Hell's Kitchen isn't responsible for the explosions, or the cops that were killed, or any of it really. In fact, she says he was trying to stop all of it from happening."

"Huh," Matt said. It was a second before he could gather himself enough to ask, "Mind reading the article out loud?"

"What? Oh, of course," Karen said.

Matt listened as she read, his shock growing with every line. The account Heather had given was amazingly accurate, though with a few notable exceptions. She didn't reveal Wilson Fisk's identity, or that she was in any way connected to the 'kingpin' that the article talked about. She also said that Vladimir hadn't given him any information while she was around, and that was a small relief. It meant Fisk was probably still in the dark about what – if anything – Vladimir had told him. The article ended with Heather's insistence that Matt had been framed, and that it was the kingpin everyone should be going after, not him.

 _Does she have any idea what she's done?_

That article was very nearly a no holds barred attack on Fisk and his empire, even without mentioning his name. She was exposing the fact that he and his empire existed, a secret that Fisk had jealously guarded up till now. She was exposing an unheard-of level of corruption within the police force.

And she was painting a giant target on her back in the process.

Maybe Fisk wouldn't harm her over this, since she was his sister. Maybe. But Fisk wasn't the only person she'd put at risk. All it would take was just one dirty cop deciding that Heather was too much of a liability. Or just one criminal who wanted to get at Fisk and now knew that he had a weakness they could target, since she'd just revealed the fact that she existed to everyone.

 _What was she thinking?_

"So, what do you think?" Foggy asked. "Is she telling the truth?"

"Why wouldn't she be?" Karen replied, letting the newspaper drop to the table.

"I don't know," Foggy said, leaning against the door frame. "It just seems like a kind of convoluted story."

"Doesn't mean it's not true," Matt said. Of course, just because it was true, that didn't mean people would automatically believe it. It did seem convoluted for someone who hadn't been there. Matt wondered if Heather had even considered the possibility that the public might not believe her.

"Yeah, I know," Foggy said. He let out a breath. "But if she's right, then…man, this is huge."

"I hope she's going to be okay," Karen said. "There's no way this kingpin will take this article lying down, and the cops probably won't do her any good now that she's accused a bunch of them of working for a crime lord."

Foggy shrugged. "I'm sure she thought of some kind of plan before doing this." Matt was not convinced that Heather had done anything of the sort. "And who knows, maybe the Devil of Hell's Kitchen will look out for her. She's taking this risk to clear his name, after all."

"That's true," Karen agreed. "Yeah, he'll probably look after her."

 _After this stunt, I'm going to have to._

The work day ended not much later, and Matt made excuses to get out of there quickly. Thanks to the time of year, the sun was already setting, so he didn't have to waste time waiting when he got home. He just changed into the suit and left. He'd waited long enough to have this talk with Heather, and after finding out about that article, Matt wasn't willing to wait any longer.

The route that led to the roof of Heather's building was starting to feel familiar. When he made it there, Matt paused a moment to listen and make sure she was actually in her apartment. She was, and Matt headed down the fire escape that led to her window.

She didn't notice him. She was leaning on her kitchen counter, staring at her coffee machine as it slowly dripped fresh coffee into the pot. Matt hesitated a moment longer, uncertain how Heather was going to react to him just showing up at her window like this. But hesitation wasn't going to get him anywhere, so Matt shoved the feeling aside and gently rapped his knuckles on the window to get her attention.

Heather jumped, her heart taking off as she whirled around. Then she spotted him, and the tension drained from her muscles and her heart rate slowed back down to normal. Her reaction made something click for Matt.

… _She trusts me._

The sudden realization explained why she'd listened to him the other night, when he'd told her she was going to come with him. Why she hadn't run away, even though she'd wanted to. And why – without any prompting on his part – she was coming to the window and unlatching it.

Heather pushed the window up, and warm air rolled out onto the fire escape. "Um, hi."

"Hi," Matt said, momentarily at a loss for words as he tried to wrap his mind around the fact that she apparently trusted him. He cleared his throat. "May I come in?"

"Yeah, sure," she said, backing away from the window to give him space.

Matt slipped inside the apartment, closing the widow behind him to keep the cold evening air out.

"Are you okay?" she asked. He paused. The way she spoke, it sounded like Heather had been trying to hold the question back. She fidgeted, her fingers playing with the sleeve of her baggy sweater. "I was worried. I mean, I knew you got away, but I wasn't sure if…"

"I'm fine," Matt said when she trailed off into uncertain silence. "I made it out okay."

"Oh. Good." The coffee machine beeped, and Heather started, a hand coming up to rest over her heart for a moment. She looked over at the coffee machine, then back at Matt. "Um, would you…like some coffee?"

It brought to mind the last time she'd offered him coffee, her gentle insistence of replacing what she'd spilled. "No, thank you."

She nodded, then moved back into the kitchen, presumably to fix a cup for herself.

"We need to talk about that article in the Bulletin," Matt said, deciding there was no reason to dance around the subject.

Her movements faltered a moment as she opened one of the cabinets. "What about it?" she asked as she retrieved a mug. Her tone was even, but Matt could hear the nervous flutter of her heart.

"You shouldn't have done it." He couldn't stop some of his frustration from bleeding into his voice, and Matt moved a few steps towards her. "Do you realize what kind of risk you're taking?"

Heather didn't look at him as she poured her coffee. She set the pot back in its place before she replied. "I'll be fine. Wilson…he won't hurt me."

Matt scowled. He felt that point was debatable, but she said it with such certainty he knew there was no use trying to argue about it. "And what about the dirty cops whose whole lives you've just threatened? Or what about other criminals that might want to get at Fisk and now know you exist?"

Now she did look at him, her mouth working for a moment before she managed to stammer out words. "I – I didn't threaten anyone! I didn't even name anyone. I just said enough so people would know it wasn't you!"

… _She doesn't have a clue what she's done._

Matt rested his hands on the counter between them, feeling the need to anchor himself. "Heather." He kept his tone firm, but restrained. "You didn't have to name people. There's identifiable video footage of me fighting those first cops that showed up. You told everyone they were trying to murder me and Vladimir. That gives IA a place to start investigating, if they do. Your brother has had people killed just to hide that fact that he exists, much less his identity. You threatened _all of them_."

Her breathing went shallow, and Matt could hear her heart pounding. He thought maybe it was finally sinking in the risk that she'd taken by doing this. "Oh," she whispered.

Matt waited, but she didn't say anything else. Instead, she turned and walked over to her fridge, opening the door and getting something out. He identified it as the peppermint mocha creamer she seemed to favor when she popped the cap open. Heather poured a liberal amount into her mug, more than Matt would have been able to tolerate.

"Oh?" Matt repeated when she didn't say anything else. "That's it?"

Heather shrugged, closing the creamer and returning it to the fridge. "What else am I supposed to say? It's not like I can take it back. The article is out there already." She walked back to the counter, her hands curling around her mug. "Freaking out won't help either, and I feel like I've been doing that a lot lately anyway, so…" Her words trailed off and she shrugged again.

She was right on both counts. She couldn't take it back, and panic wouldn't help. The knowledge did nothing to temper Matt's frustration.

"Why did you do it?" he asked. The _why_ of the situation was one thing he hadn't been able to figure out.

Heather fidgeted with her mug. Matt hadn't expected an immediate answer, so he waited determinedly for her to say something. When she spoke, her words came slowly. "I just…I felt like I needed to tell the truth about what happened. I owed you. For saving me."

He heard the tell-tale flutter of her heartbeat as she spoke. "You're lying."

She took in a sharp breath, and her heart ticked up. "I'm not – "

"You are. Or you're leaving something out." Matt tilted his head. "Either way, you're not telling the whole truth."

Heather bit her lip, tension radiating from her. "You have some kind of superpower, don't you?"

"What?" Matt asked blankly, thrown by the sudden change in topic.

She nodded slowly. "You must. When you were on that phone call, listing off what was in the room, I couldn't see half of the things you were talking about. You knew the cop was there way before I could tell, and that the building was surrounded. You knew when Officer Sullivan was about to wake up, and you weren't even looking at him. You're the only one who managed not to bump into my bruises when touching me. And now, you can tell… I don't know what kind of power that is, exactly, but it's something."

Matt had never thought of what he could do in terms of superpowers. Superpowers were for people like, say, the Avengers, and Matt certainly wasn't one of them. But the average person definitely couldn't do what Matt could, so he supposed that maybe the term 'superpower' wasn't technically wrong either.

 _She's more observant than I gave her credit for._ Maybe she was only oblivious where her brother was concerned.

"That's not the point right now," Matt said. It wasn't really an answer, which he knew was answer enough. "The point is you're not answering my question."

She stared a moment longer, and for a second Matt thought she might try lying again. Then Heather slumped, leaning forward on the counter with a sigh. "I do feel like I owe you," she said quietly, "but you're right. That's not the only reason." She took a sip of her coffee, and Matt waited for her to keep talking.

"I did it because…because Vladimir was right. And I don't want him to be."

Matt frowned. Her heart was steady, and she was telling the truth now, but it didn't make sense. "You lost me," Matt said.

Heather fiddled with the handle of her mug. "You said you wouldn't let him hurt me because I was innocent. And he said I wasn't. That I'd never done anything to try and stop Wilson."

Matt remembered the moment now. He hadn't given Vladimir's words much thought, because it hadn't been relevant to what he wanted. It hadn't occurred to him to wonder what kind of impact they might have had on Heather.

He could smell the salty tang that meant her eyes had welled with tears, and now the words spilled from Heather's mouth like she couldn't hold them back any more.

"I _knew._ I mean, I didn't – I didn't know exactly what he was doing. But I knew that something wasn't right. There was just – just too many things that didn't add up. But I never asked. I never tried to figure it out. I didn't _want_ to know. Because – because he's my brother. Maybe that shouldn't mean anything. But it does, okay? It does!"

She pushed up, away from the counter and paced the kitchen floor. She swiped at her eyes with a hand. "He's always been there for me. Always. He's done more for me than anyone. How – how was I supposed to admit that he might actually be a monster?"

Heather stopped pacing and swerved around to face Matt again. "And he is a monster. I get that. _Vividly_. I can't pretend he isn't. Not anymore." She took a deep breath and curled her arms around herself. "And now…now if I don't do _something_ , then Vladimir's right. I can't let him be right."

Matt waited, but she didn't say anything else. He didn't respond right away, mulling over her words. Her desperation and grief pricked at him, especially as he remembered how unsympathetic he'd been before.

That Wilson Fisk was a monster had been obvious to Matt. But he'd dealt with the awful results of Fisk's work from the start. Heather hadn't. Fisk had been her brother first, and apparently a good one. Matt hadn't taken time to consider things from her point of view. How would he feel, if it had turned out that Foggy was secretly a criminal?

"Okay," Matt said, trying to choose his words with care. "If you want to help stop him, that's good, but…try not to do anything that makes you more of a target for people."

Her weight shifted. "Did you have something in mind?"

Matt nodded slowly. "You could answer some questions for me."

Heather shuffled back over to the counter and picked up her coffee. The cup was lukewarm now. "I don't know anything about his criminal activities."

"I know," Matt said. "But you know how to find him."

He let the sentence hang in the air. Heather took a long, slow drink of her coffee, setting the cup down and licking her lips. "I'm not going to tell you where he lives, if that's what you're asking."

Matt frowned. "Heather – "

She shook her head. "No. I know Wilson. He wouldn't keep anything incriminating in his home. He's not that sloppy. The only reason for you to go to his home is to…" She didn't finish the sentence, but she didn't need to. The only reason for Matt to go to Fisk's home was to hurt him.

"You said you want him on trial for what he's done," Heather said. "I'll help you do that. But I'm not going to help you hurt him. I can't – he's still my brother."

Matt wasn't sure there was as much a distinction between getting Fisk on trial and hurting him as Heather seemed to think. Fisk wasn't the sort of man to go down without a fight. But if the distinction made her willing to help in any way, Matt wouldn't quibble over it.

"Then what are you willing to tell me?" Matt asked.

She considered, rocking back on her heels. "Um. He's got two office buildings that I know of. You could probably find something there."

"What are the addresses?" Matt asked.

"Oh, I'll write them down for you," Heather said, moving out of the kitchen and into the living room. Matt turned to follow her movement. He didn't tell her that it'd be simpler for her to just tell him the addresses instead of writing them down. She'd already figured out there was something different in how he perceived the world, but she didn't need to know he was blind. Reading ink on paper was annoying, but he could manage it.

She dug through the satchel she'd been carrying on her way home from work that day he'd bumped into her and tugged out a notebook and pen. She scribbled down the addresses, but paused. Then slowly her pen scratched out something else.

"What did you add?" Matt asked.

She dropped the pen back in the satchel and ripped the paper out of the notebook. "A name." Heather stood, tossing the notebook on her couch and holding out the paper for Matt. "James Wesley. I don't know who Wilson's money guy is, but James is his assistant. He does pretty much everything for Wilson."

Matt took the paper. _I bet that's the guy who hired me and Foggy to defend Healy._ He tucked the paper in a pocket, and he wondered if Heather realized what she was doing by giving him Wesley's name. If he was Fisk's assistant, then he must be loyal to the man. If Matt was going to get anything from him, it was a guarantee he was going to have to hurt him.

He decided not to mention it.

Heather crossed her arms. "That's all I can think of right now that might be useful to you."

"Thank you," Matt said. "This helps." He hesitated a moment, then pulled out his burner phone and held it out to her. "Here. Do me a favor and put your number in?"

She took the phone from him and flipped it open. "Why do you need…?"

He shrugged slightly. "In case something comes up." He listened to the quiet beeping of the buttons as she put it in. When she finished, he added, "Go ahead and call your phone with it." She paused, looking at him. "If something happens because of that article, I want you to be able to reach me," Matt explained. "I don't trust the cops to help you anymore. But if you need me, I'll do what I can."

Heather hit a button, and her phone rang from its spot on her coffee table. She flipped the phone closed and handed it back to Matt. He tucked it back in his pocket.

Matt couldn't think of anything else to say, so he nodded to her and turned back towards the window.

"Hey, um," she started, and Matt stopped, turning his head her way. She fidgeted. "I don't know what I should call you. I mean, obviously I don't expect you to tell me your name or anything, but Devil of Hell's Kitchen is kind of…"

Matt shrugged. "It doesn't matter. Call me whatever you want."

She rocked back a little, seemingly thrown for a loop by his response. She shifted a bit, her attention darting to her bookshelf for a moment, then back to him. "Jack?" she tentatively offered. His surprise must have shown, because she hastily added, "I can pick something different."

"No, that's…fine," Matt said. It shouldn't be such a big surprise, he supposed. Jack was a common enough name. But it was also his dad's name, and he hadn't quite expected it.

"Right. Good." She bit her lip, and Matt waited, because he could tell there was something else she wanted to say. "Um, I wanted say thank you. Not about the other night – I mean, yes, I'm grateful for that too, obviously, but, um…" She stopped and sighed, the temperature in her face rising. "I'm a teacher. Jason Holloway is one of my students."

Matt shifted, turning to face her completely, because he recognized that name. That was the boy he'd saved from the Russians.

Heather took a few steps towards him, stopping about an arm's length away. "I've wanted to say thank you from the moment I found out you'd saved him, but I didn't think I'd ever get the chance. So, thank you."

"How's he doing?" Matt asked, because it was something he'd wondered in the days following the rescue. Jason hadn't been hurt physically, but it was hard to guess how a kid might react to what he'd been through.

"He's good," Heather said. "A lot better than I expected, honestly. He's back at school." A small smile crept up her face. "He, uh, draws a lot of pictures of you, actually. You're kind of his hero now."

Matt wasn't sure how he felt about that. He hadn't started this with the intention of being anyone's hero. "I'm glad he's alright."

He headed for the window, and this time Heather didn't say anything to stop him. She followed behind him, and once he was on the fire escape, she closed the window and locked it.

Matt headed back to the roof. The meeting with Heather had gone surprisingly well, but the night was young, and Matt's job wasn't done yet.

* * *

 **AN:** Whoo, this chapter got longer than I planned, but hopefully that's a good thing! Heather has made her move, and we got some more Matt/Heather interactions. Next chapter, Wilson and Heather get to have a conversation, which I'm really looking forward to.


	10. Chapter 10

Matt had been hopeful after his meeting with Heather that maybe his night was going to go better. Things with Heather had gone better than he'd expected, so maybe that was a sign. It seemed to be, at first. He'd managed to track down Owlsley, isolate him in the parking garage of his building, but then Matt heard a heartbeat and breathing and measured steps that he hadn't heard in roughly twenty years. His focus slipped, and Owlsley took advantage of his distraction to hit him with a taser and get away.

Not Matt's finest moment. So of course, that was the one that Stick chose to walk in on. Stick was more or less as Matt remembered him, what with his caustic lectures about the futility of the life Matt had built for himself, and his vague warnings of his oncoming, mystic war. Even so, when Stick had asked for Matt's help dealing with a weapon that the Japanese were bringing into Hell's Kitchen, Matt had agreed. He didn't want them bringing in weapons of any kind, much less the sort of doomsday weapon that Stick claimed this was, and he wanted Stick out of New York.

But as usual, Stick failed to tell Matt the most important parts. Like that this Black Sky doomsday weapon was actually just a kid.

Matt tried. He _tried._

It wasn't enough. Stick still managed to kill the boy.

They fought and Stick left, and this time Matt hoped he'd never meet Stick again.

He didn't get much sleep that night, so when he went to work Tuesday, he was exhausted and in a bad mood that he tried to hide because he didn't have a good reason to give Foggy and Karen for it, and none of it was their fault anyway. But his determination to pretend nothing was wrong was put to the test before he even made it to the office door, when he overheard Foggy and Karen talking.

"Matt wouldn't understand. You know what he would say."

Karen's voice. Exasperated and firm as she walked across the office. Matt's steps slowed in the hall as he listened.

"That we're awesome?" Foggy offered in response.

"No, that we're being stupid."

"I prefer the term foolhardily provocative."

A frown pulled at Matt's face. Neither sentence boded well for whatever they were up to.

"Yeah, that's lawyer talk for stupid," Karen grumbled. She'd moved to their coffee machine, pouring herself a mug. "Want some coffee?"

"If we're going to be Nancy Drewing together, I think a certain level of honesty is required."

"What? You don't like my coffee?"

"No. I hate it. I appreciate the effort, but the technique or lack thereof…"

Foggy's words earned a small laugh out of Karen. "You are such a dick."

"On occasion some dickery may leak out, but it doesn't mean I'm wrong."

"Well it means something."

Matt drew near to the door. Neither of them noticed.

Foggy sighed. "Okay, let's say we keep Matt in the dark. How long do you think – " Matt opened the office door, and Foggy spun around, his heart ticking up as he quickly changed whatever he'd been about to say. " – I should grow my hair? Matt, what's your take on that? Mullet? Full pony?"

"Did you fall down again?" Karen asked, obviously noticing the cut over his eyebrow from his fight with Stick.

"It's nothing. Don't tell me what?" he asked, because there was no way he was letting this go.

"Dammit," Foggy grumbled.

"You heard that?" Karen asked.

"Guy's like a bat," Foggy complained, then switched to his recognizable instant regret mode that he did any time he accidentally said something that he worried might be offensive. "I mean, not blind like a – you know, the hearing…"

"Bats aren't blind, Foggy," Matt said dryly. He took a couple steps towards then, slipping his hands in his pockets to affect a casualness he didn't actually feel.

"…They're not?"

"It's a myth," Matt told him. He directed his attention towards Karen, because she was the one that had been the most insistent about not telling him whatever it was that they were up to. "What don't you want me to know?"

She looked over at Foggy, and Foggy shook his head. Matt didn't react to the gestures, but their reluctance didn't help his mood any.

Then Karen shifted and said, "We're investigating Union Allied."

Foggy sighed. "Remind me to keep you off the witness stand."

Matt barely registered Foggy's words. He was too busy trying not to react with the amount of force that he wanted to at Karen's admission. Investigating Union Allied was what had led Matt to the world of organized crime in Hell's Kitchen. It had led him to Fisk, who was willing and able to wipe out anyone who might threaten his empire. If Karen and Foggy managed to get anywhere in their investigation, if they managed to get noticed at all…Matt couldn't stand the thought of what Fisk might do to them.

"You can't do that."

Karen stiffened at his words. "Why not?"

"For starters you signed legal papers and took money to leave it alone," Matt said.

She didn't hesitate at all before she replied, meaning she'd already thought through that objection. "No, I signed papers saying I wouldn't go public with any information. And _I_ won't."

"We have someone lined up for that part," Foggy added, and Matt's head tilted.

"What part?"

They exchanged another look, and Karen slowly said, "Breaking the story." Before Matt could respond to that bombshell, she hastened on. "Look, whoever is behind Union Allied or whatever they call themselves now, they are trying to strong arm people like Elena so that they can sweep their homes away from them and build condos no one can afford."

"And what do you think is going to happen when these whoevers find out what it is that you're up to?" Matt asked. He only asked the question to try and make them think, because Matt already knew the answer. Why was he surrounded by people who didn't think these risks through?

"We already took care of it," Foggy said.

Matt slowly turned in his direction. "Took care of _what_?"

There was another moment of drawn out silence, then Karen spoke, reluctance coating her words. "The, uh, guys who busted up Elena's apartment. They…came after me when I was leaving her place last night."

Matt lowered his head, rolling his lips between his teeth, and wondered if this was what a heart attack felt like. "Are you okay?" He didn't notice any injuries, but he wanted to be sure.

"Yes," she said. "Foggy was following me."

 _Great. Of course he was._ Matt hadn't had nearly enough sleep to properly deal with this.

"And why were you following her?" he asked Foggy.

"She was acting funny," Foggy said defensively.

"There was no funny," Karen countered.

"There was a little funny," Foggy replied.

Matt held up a hand to stop their back and forth. "This is what I'm talking about," he said, trying to reel them back in to what was important. "There are things out there…You can't be doing this, you're going to get yourselves hurt." He couldn't stand the thought of them getting hurt, the knowledge that they had been in danger and he hadn't been anywhere near to help. They weren't trained fighters, either of them, not like he was. They shouldn't be taking these kinds of risks.

"I've already been hurt by those bastards!"

Karen's exclamation brought Matt up short.

"I don't care what I signed," she said. "I don't care how much money they paid me to forget. I'm not just going to stick my head in the sand and let it happen to somebody else because I'm scared! Which I am. A lot."

" _And he is a monster. I get that. Vividly. I can't pretend he isn't. Not anymore. And now…now if I don't do something, then Vladimir's right. I can't let him be right."_

Karen's determination, her desperation, and her fear…they all reminded Matt of Heather. His resolve weakened. The need to _do something_ , that was a need Matt understood very well.

"If you could see her face, you'd know she means it," Foggy said.

Matt didn't need to see her. Everything about her spoke of her determination. "Yeah, I got that."

 _I can't stop them._

Karen was going to do this, regardless of whatever objections Matt brought up, and Foggy would doubtless help her. The only option Matt had left was to work with them then, and try to mitigate the danger they put themselves in that way.

"Who else is involved in this?" he asked, turning to head to his office, not doubting they would follow him. If they were actually going to talk about doing this, Matt wanted to sit. "Who's helping you break whatever it is you think you're going to find out?"

"Ben Urich, from the Bulletin," Karen said, her footsteps and Foggy's following him.

"The one who wrote the Union Allied piece," Matt said, recognizing the name. He sat in his chair, while Karen and Foggy stood on the other side of his desk.

"And the article from yesterday," Foggy added. "The one about Heather Fisk, and her account of the bombings?"

"Which leads us to the next thing," Karen said. "Ben thinks she's a lead."

Matt's head tilted, and for a second, he didn't think he'd heard Karen right. "What?"

"We talked to Ben last night," Karen said. "He thinks that the kingpin Heather Fisk told him about is the same person at the top of the Union Allied situation, and he's convinced that she knows who the kingpin actually is. If we can talk to her – "

" _Absolutely not_."

The words came out more forcefully than Matt had intended, but he wasn't about to take them back. Karen and Foggy talking to Heather was about the worst idea that Matt could think of, because Urich was right. But her connection to the kingpin was that she was his sister, and it didn't take much creativity to imagine what Fisk might do if he caught wind of people snooping around Heather.

"Why not?" Foggy asked. "If she does know who he is, she could be the key to getting this guy locked away."

Except Matt already knew that she wasn't, not really. Heather didn't know anything about Fisk's crimes, except what had happened with the bombings. Even then, she couldn't actually prove that Wilson was behind that incident. Even if she agreed to testify against him, it would only be a game of he said, she said, and Matt knew how that would end. If they had an actual case against Fisk, her testimony could probably be helpful. On its own though, it'd be useless.

"If Urich's right, and she does know who the kingpin is, he's probably watching her," Matt said. "Especially after that article yesterday. If we start asking questions, there's no way he won't notice. Which puts us in exactly the kind of dangerous situation that I'm trying to avoid."

"If Ben's right, then _she's_ in danger," Karen pointed out. "She needs someone to help her."

"Ben did say she seemed pretty convinced that the kingpin wouldn't go after her," Foggy said.

Karen shook her head, her hands gripping the back of the chair that sat in front of Matt's desk. "That doesn't make her right. She needs help."

"I thought we agreed yesterday that the Devil of Hell's Kitchen would probably look out for her," Matt said.

"What if he isn't enough?"

The challenge in Karen's voice was enough to shut Matt up. _"I already killed it while you were busy with Nobu's goons."_ Matt swallowed. He hated that she was right. Sometimes…sometimes he wasn't enough, no matter how hard he tried.

"I'm sure he'll try to help her," Karen said, "but he's just one guy and this is huge. She obviously wants to talk to someone since she went to Ben."

"If she wants to talk to someone so bad, why didn't she give Urich the kingpin's name?" Matt questioned.

"I don't know," Karen said. "But we won't ever know unless we talk to her."

Matt leaned forward in his seat. "Talking to her could get you killed!"

"Okay, hold up," Foggy said, holding his hands up in a slowdown gesture. "You both have excellent points. And, I for one, am a big fan of people not trying to kill me. So, compromise. Talking to Heather Fisk isn't the only way to get information about her. We can do research. See what we can dig up. Who knows, maybe since we know she's connected to the kingpin, we'll manage to find something that can lead us to him without ever talking to her at all. If we can't find what we need, we will revisit the idea of interviewing her. Sound good?"

Matt could tell Karen wasn't thrilled with the compromise. Matt wasn't either, since it left talking to Heather open as a possibility. But it would stall for time, maybe enough for Matt to figure out a way to keep them from going anywhere near Heather. "It works for me," Matt said.

Karen was silent for a moment, but finally she nodded. "Yeah. Okay."

Foggy clapped his hands together. "Great! And now that that's settled, we do have actual work to get done. So, let's hop to it!"

Matt rubbed at his temple. _This is going to be a long day._

In the end, it only took them a couple hours to finish up the actual work they needed to do that day. They still had so few clients, there just wasn't that much to do yet. So, by lunch time they were able to order takeout and settle in, ready to research Union Allied and Heather Fisk and see if there was any legal avenue they could pursue.

They'd only been at it for a few minutes when Karen let out a short curse.

"That doesn't sound good," Foggy said, looking at her over the screen of his laptop.

"It's not. I just googled Heather Fisk, and the news is full of responses to that article she had put out," Karen said.

"Not good, I'm guessing," Matt said.

"That's an understatement." Her mouse clicked, probably opening more articles. "Here, I'll just play this clip."

The news anchor's voice played through the speakers. "Officer Sullivan, what can you tell us about the events of Saturday night?"

Matt recognized his voice when he replied. It was the cop that had stumbled upon him, Vladimir, and Heather. He claimed that the media's previous version of events had been on the money. That Matt had been the one to blow those buildings up, that he'd actually seen Matt shoot the cops, that he'd only released Heather and Officer Sullivan to slow down the other cops, but otherwise he'd have probably killed them too.

There was no kingpin. No hidden threat. Just Matt.

"If this is true," the anchorwoman asked, "then why would Heather Fisk claim otherwise? Why would she try to make it sound like the Devil of Hell's Kitchen is actually some kind of hero?"

"I don't know, ma'am," Officer Sullivan said. "It certainly isn't what she said in her police report. I can only assume that she's being coerced somehow. If the Devil of Hell's Kitchen has threatened her, I wish she'd come to the police for help. We'd keep her safe from him."

The clip came to an end. "Damn," Foggy said.

It deserved a stronger response than that.

"There's plenty more where that comes from," Karen said. "There's a lot of condemnation for the Bulletin too, for printing the article."

"Which means even if we could figure out who the kingpin is, and Urich printed an article about it," Matt said, "no one will believe him."

Karen and Foggy didn't say anything. What was there to say? Their plans at exposing kingpin had just gone up in smoke.

"No," Karen said suddenly. "No! We're not done with this!"

"Karen," Foggy said, but she stood, shaking her head.

"This isn't over! We _know_ this guy exists! If we can just find a way to prove it, then this won't matter. We can't give up now. We can still fix this."

"Maybe," Matt said.

But things just got a lot harder.

… _Heather hasn't tried to call me._

He'd told her to, if anything happened because of the article. This definitely counted as something happening, and it was unlikely that this was all Fisk had done. So why hadn't she called? Was she waiting for something? Did she think he wouldn't try to help after all? Or had Fisk done something that meant she couldn't call him? There were too many possibilities, and Matt didn't like any of them. If she didn't call him, he'd definitely be checking in on her tonight.

* * *

Wilson rode the elevator up to Heather's floor alone and in silence. He hadn't intended to force this conversation, and he didn't look forward to it. But outside forces left him with little choice. Her article had been a stunning, unexpected blow. No doubt the Devil of Hell's Kitchen had put her up to it; Wilson couldn't fathom that Heather would have acted in such a way on her own.

To make things worse, the Devil of Hell's Kitchen had also gone after Leland. It was a stroke of fortune that Leland had managed to get away. Then the Devil had managed to foul up Nobu's operation, and Madame Gao had come calling with her gentle but razor-sharp warning that Wilson was getting soft, that he needed to keep his own house in order.

Everything Wilson had worked on so carefully building for years was starting to slip, and the worst of it was that Heather was at risk of being caught in it.

Wilson's jaw clenched. _It's all his fault._

The elevator dinged as the doors slid open, and Wilson did his best to put the Devil of Hell's Kitchen out of his mind. This moment would require all of Wilson's focus. He'd already taken steps to ease the damage Heather had done with that article, and this was the next.

He walked down the hall to Heather's door, pulling out his key to her apartment. He'd never actually had cause to use it before, but he doubted if she'd open up if he knocked, and Wilson couldn't let her avoid this talk.

Wilson walked inside and saw Heather standing in front of her faded green couch, remote clutched in one hand as she stared at him wide eyed. Wilson studied her face a moment, taking in the sight of dark bruises that had yet to heal. Then his gaze moved past her to the television, where the news was playing. "You already know then," he said. He shut the door behind him.

Her gaze darted to the television then back to Wilson. "What did you do to him to make him say that?"

Wilson looked over at the television again. The interview with Officer Sullivan was playing. The man looked pale and unhappy, but he said the words he needed to say. He talked about how the Devil of Hell's Kitchen and Vladimir seemed to have had some sort of feud that had resulted in the Devil blowing up those buildings. He said he had seen the man with the sniper rifle that he'd used to kill those cops. He said the only reason that he and Heather had gotten out alive was because the Devil of Hell's Kitchen had decided to let them go to slow the cops down. He said he didn't know why Heather was lying about all of it; perhaps the Devil of Hell's Kitchen was forcing her to, maybe he was threatening her, but the story in the Bulletin didn't match what had actually happened, or the statement that she had given the police.

"What did you do?" Heather asked again, her voice cracking on the last word.

Officer Sullivan had a pregnant wife. In a situation like that, gaining compliance was a simple matter. But that knowledge would only hurt Heather, and she was going to have to deal with enough hurt already.

"It doesn't matter," Wilson said. He took a step towards her, and Heather recoiled, arms curling around herself protectively. Wilson stopped.

"How could you?" she whispered.

He walked deeper into the apartment, though not towards Heather, mindful of the way she shrank from him. Wilson let a hand come to rest on the kitchen counter. She didn't know everything yet. This was going to get worse before it got better. "You left me with little choice, Heather."

She made a small noise of disbelief. "But I didn't – I didn't tell them anything they could use against you."

She didn't understand. Of course, she didn't. Wilson could hardly expect her to. Heather was too gentle, too soft. She didn't have a cunning bone in her body. It was why he had to do this. It was for her own good, much as it might hurt her now.

"You told them I exist," Wilson said gently. "That was enough."

Her face paled, and slowly she sank down to sit on the edge of coffee table. She was staring at him, brown eyes wide, but Wilson wasn't sure if she was really seeing him.

Or perhaps she was.

Wilson moved towards her, though he left the couch between them. "Heather," he said, wanting to make sure she was listening. She blinked, and her eyes focused on him though she didn't speak. "It is no longer safe for you to remain in Hell's Kitchen. Your article did not only put me at risk, but my associates as well." He thought of Nobu's anger, Leland's disdain, and Madame Gao's razor warnings. "I cannot be sure of your safety as long as you are here."

Heather shook her head slightly. "This is my home."

Wilson hated this next part. He didn't want to see the look on her face. But he would do what he must to keep her safe. If she had to hate him for it, then so be it.

"The media is going to turn you into a pariah," he said simply. "I don't know if Principal Evans will fire you immediately, but at the very least you will be suspended without pay. The termination will come sooner or later, and if you were to look for work, there is no one in New York that would hire you. Your bank accounts have been mostly depleted. When your rent comes due in two weeks, you won't be able to pay it. Your landlord will not offer you an extension."

Heather's lips parted, but no sound came out. The remote, which she'd been holding this whole time, slipped out of her hand and landed on the floor with a dull thud.

"I am sorry," Wilson said. He hoped she could see how much he meant it, but the look of devastated betrayal on her face told him she couldn't. "Your life here is done, but I promise, I will take care of you. I will make sure you have every comfort you could want."

"No." Her voice was barely more than a whisper.

Wilson's shoulders slumped. He'd expected that she would be stubborn, at first. She was still in shock. This was a big change. It'd take time to sink in. She would accept things. And if somehow her stubbornness held out, if in two weeks' time when she was removed from her apartment she still refused to go, well. This wasn't really a choice for her. He'd do what he must.

"I'll leave you for now," Wilson said, "but we'll speak again soon." He turned and went to the door, pausing with his hand on the handle. "I love you, Heather."

He waited, but she didn't say it back.

Wilson's heart was heavy as he left Heather's apartment. He wished things could be otherwise. He wished that Heather could be allowed to remain where she was, living the quiet, simple life that she enjoyed. He wished he didn't have to tear her away from it.

But the truth was that the moment that Vladimir had decided to kidnap Heather, her simple life had ended. _It would never have happened if the Devil of Hell's Kitchen hadn't made Vladimir so desperate._

Wilson glowered at his reflection in the dull metal of the elevator doors. Everything Heather was going through now was all _his_ fault. Wilson would make him pay for it.

* * *

Heather couldn't say how long she sat there on her coffee table, staring but unseeing. She felt numb in the wake of Wilson's visit.

 _Jack was right._

He'd warned her. He'd said that Wilson would have to do something in response. Heather hadn't really believed him. Not about Wilson. She'd heeded his warning about the dirty cops and other criminals, but _Wilson_. She'd been sure that he could never do anything to hurt her.

She guessed he hadn't, in a way. Not physically at least. But it hadn't occurred to Heather that he could tear down her entire life without ever laying a finger on her.

 _He was so…calm about it._

Calm and apologetic. She could almost believe him when he said he was sorry. But he'd still done it. In space of a few minutes, he'd destroyed her life so completely that she wouldn't have a choice but to do what he wanted.

Heather couldn't go to her friends for help. That would only make them targets. She couldn't try to fight Wilson, couldn't go to Ben Urich and say she wanted to reveal the kingpin's identity, because now her reputation was in shambles and no one would believe her. She couldn't even run away, because running would take money and Wilson had made sure she didn't have any. And if she tried, Heather had no doubts anymore that Wilson would have her kidnapped and dragged to whatever place he'd decided to keep her in.

 _I'm done._

Heather had tried. She'd _tried_.

She'd tried to take a stand against Wilson for once in her life, tried to do the right thing. Tried to make up for all the years she'd pretended and lied and told herself she didn't know that he was doing something wrong. Tried to defend someone else.

It hadn't been enough. And her efforts had backfired spectacularly. Now she was looking at spending the rest of her life locked away in a cage. A comfortable cage, no doubt. But a cage was still a cage, no matter how comfortable.

Her cellphone rang, snapping Heather out of her thoughts. She blinked, noticing it was markedly dimmer than it had been when Wilson had left, and at some point, it had started raining outside. She was stiff; she must have been sitting there for hours.

 _That's Maria's ringtone._

She'd probably seen the news, and wanted to check on Heather to make sure she was okay. Heather didn't want to answer, but she knew if she didn't, Maria would probably come over, and that would be worse. Heather stood, her muscles making their protest at her uncomfortable position for the past couple hours known. She picked her phone up from the couch and answered just before it went to voicemail.

"Hello?"

"Oh, good, you answered," Maria said. "I'm on my way over."

"You don't need to do that," Heather said.

"Oh no, don't think you're talking me out of this," Maria said. "I know you, and you do not need to be alone after that mess on the news."

Heather bit her lip. She appreciated Maria's concern, but she couldn't handle seeing her right now. Not when she'd have to spend her evening lying to Maria, pretending things weren't quite as bad as they actually were.

"Actually, I'm not home," Heather said, closing her eyes and praying for forgiveness even as she lied.

"You're not?"

"No," Heather said. "I'm, um, staying with Wilson. Actually, I'm going to be out of town for a couple days. He's been wanting to send me on a vacation, and with everything going on, I thought now might be a good time to let him."

"Oh. Well, well good. I'm glad. It's about time you took a couple days for yourself, and – and…" Her voice faded for a moment. "You know this is going to be okay, right? Everything will blow over."

Heather had to swallow the lump in her throat. Maria was wrong, but Heather loved her for trying. "I know," she agreed quietly. "It'll be okay."

They hung up, and Heather stared at the phone in her hand. It occurred to her that she could try calling Jack; he'd said to call, if something happened as a result of the article. She dismissed the thought almost as soon as it crossed her mind. It wasn't like there was anything he could do about this. She wasn't being threatened, exactly. No one was trying to kill her. There was no one for him to fight for her. All she would manage to do was bother him more than she already had.

She let the phone drop back on the couch and ran her hands over her head. _What am I going to do?_

There was a rapping on her window, and Heather jumped, turning to see Jack there on her fire escape, like her thoughts had summoned him. She gaped a moment. She hadn't expected him to just show up like that. Then she remembered it was cold and raining, and she moved to the window to open it and let him in.

She didn't know where he'd come from, but he'd been outside long enough that he was fairly soaked by the rain. He had to be freezing. "I'll get you a towel," Heather said automatically, turning to head to the bathroom. Jack caught her wrist before she made it more than a step away; his grip was loose, but it still made Heather freeze in place as she looked back at him.

He was frowning. She couldn't see his eyes of course because of the mask, but the way his head tilted towards her made Heather feel like he was studying her. She did her best to keep her face neutral.

His mouth softened. "You don't have to do that," he said, his voice gentle. "You don't have to pretend you're okay with me."

For a moment Heather just stared at him. Her mouth trembled, a sob escaped, and then it was like a dam burst within and she cried. Her legs went weak, and Jack's arms circled around her in a hug to carefully lower her to the floor. He sat with her, and Heather pressed into his side, uncaring of how cold he was, or the way the water from his shirt soaked through her sweater. She just buried her face in his chest as she cried, and he let her, one arm curled around her to keep her close, the other rubbing circles on her back. He didn't try to talk while she cried, he just held her and waited.

Eventually Heather cried herself out, and as her tears dried, she felt exhausted. Then it filtered through how she was clinging to Jack, practically draped over his lap, and Heather flushed, hastily pulling back. The moment she moved his arms dropped, letting her go. "Sorry," she stammered.

"Don't apologize," he said. "You've had a rough day."

Heather let out a hollow laugh. "That's one way of putting it."

"He came to see you, didn't he?"

She looked over at him in surprise, and Jack shrugged. "I can tell a man's been here. Not hard to guess who."

He could tell? How could he possibly….? Heather shook the questions away. It didn't really matter how Jack's abilities worked. He was right after all.

"Yeah. Wilson was here."

"What happened?"

Heather bit her lip. There wasn't anything Jack could do, but…he was the only one she could possibly tell. The only one who knew what she was really dealing with. Heather found the words spilling out, what Wilson had told her and what he'd done.

"And there's nothing I can do about any of it," she said once she'd told him. "I can't even try to run from him, because that takes money, and he made sure I don't have any left." A hollow bleakness filled her again. "I'm trapped. He won."

Jack didn't respond right away. Heather really didn't expect him to say much of anything. Maybe tell her he felt sorry for her or something. She certainly didn't expect what he finally said.

"What if you could get away from him? Hide somewhere he couldn't find you?"

Heather looked over at him, confusion pulling her expression into a frown. "But…I can't. I don't have the resources to get away from him. The only place I could go without money is with my friends, and I can't do that to them. They'd be in too much danger."

"You could stay with me."

"I – what?" She couldn't have heard that right.

Jack shrugged. "You're not connected to my real identity. Fisk would never know to look for you with me. Your friends wouldn't know where you were, so he'd have no reason to bother them. You're going to lose your job and apartment anyway, so you don't have to worry about that."

Heather stared at him. He was actually – he was seriously suggesting that she – ?

"Plus," Jack continued, "it could give me an advantage. If you vanish on him, then Fisk will be distracted. He might panic, could get sloppy. After today, I need every advantage I can get."

Heather could hardly believe what he was offering. "You realize for that to work, I'd have to stay with you until Wilson was arrested. We have no idea how long that might be. It could be months."

"I know," Jack said.

"And – and if I stay with you, how would you keep your identity a secret?" Heather asked.

He hesitated a moment, then said, "I wouldn't. It wouldn't be possible."

His simple reply floored her. That was such a risk on his part. He didn't know her, not really, and her brother wanted him dead. But he was still willing to take that risk, to help her. To stop Wilson. To try and protect a city full of people that right now mostly hated him. It was the kind of selfless courage that Heather could only dream of having, and the warmth of it had the words coming out before she'd even consciously made her decision.

"Okay."

"Are you sure?" he asked. "Like you said, this could take months. For it to work, you won't be able to have contact with anyone. This won't be easy."

That was true enough, and Heather didn't like the idea of vanishing and not being able to tell anyone that she was okay. But this wasn't a cage, and it wasn't forever; this was a _choice_. It was a way to stand up against Wilson. It was a chance to try again.

"Yes," Heather said. She felt like a weight had lifted from her chest. "I'm sure."

* * *

 **AN:** Ah, I had fun with this one! I really enjoyed writing the talk with Heather and Wilson; I feel bad for Heather, and I also find it kind of hilarious how little Wilson actually knows her. Also, what do y'all think of Matt's plan? I can tell you it'll definitely work to make Wilson made. You think he hates Matt now? Just wait until Heather vanishes on him.


	11. Chapter 11

Deciding to go with Jack was simple enough for Heather. Deciding what to take was somewhat more complicated. She didn't want to take too much, and she wasn't sure what she might need. She didn't bother packing any of her professional clothes; she was just going to be sitting in his apartment, so jeans, yoga pants, and sweaters would be fine. _How many changes of clothes do I need?_

The question prompted her to lean out of her bedroom door and ask, "Do you have a washing machine at your place?" If he did, Heather could get away with fewer clothes, but if Jack was going to have to make trips to a laundromat or something then she'd probably need more clothes.

Jack was sitting on one of her barstools, waiting for her to finish packing. "I do."

Heather nodded. "Okay, good." She ducked back in her room to keep packing. _I've got clothes, I've got toiletries, what else do I need?_

She didn't need any work stuff obviously. _Oh, my laptop!_ Heather packed that, then thought of her important documents. She'd want to make sure she had her social, and birth certificate and things. Once she had those, she paused and looked around her room. She'd never thought packing could be this hard. _What's going to happen to everything I leave behind?_ It wouldn't stay in her apartment, clearly. Would Wilson take it, when she was officially evicted? If he did, how would she get it back once he was -

Heather gripped the edge of her suitcase, suddenly realizing she was trying to get her brother arrested. Which he definitely deserved to be. But given what he'd done, Wilson was probably looking at being locked up for the rest of his life. That was - that was so _final_.

 _He's never going to forgive me for this, is he?_

The thought hurt. Maybe it shouldn't, all things considered. But the idea of Wilson hating her made her chest ache.

"Everything alright?"

Heather jumped. Jack stood in the doorway; she hadn't noticed his approach. "Sorry," he said. "Didn't mean to startle you."

"No, it's fine," Heather said. She wondered how he could move so quietly in his heavy looking boots. "I'm fine. Just, uh, thinking about what I might need."

His mouth thinned, and Heather abruptly remembered that he could tell when people lied to him. Her face heated. With all he was doing for her, the least she could do was be honest with him. She just wasn't used to being honest about the things that bothered her with, well, anyone really.

"I'm sorry," Heather said. "That's not true. Which I guess you noticed. Um. I'm not having second thoughts or anything, I promise. I just..." she trailed off, suddenly feeling foolish with her concerns. "You're going to think it's stupid."

He seemed to consider her words. Or maybe he was waiting to see if she'd keep talking. It was hard to read anything about him when she could only see half his face. After a moment he asked, "Is it something I can do anything about? Or something that will make things riskier?"

Heather shook her head. "No. On both counts."

He nodded. "Then you don't have to tell me if you don't want to."

Relief flooded her. She wasn't sure if she understood how she was feeling about Wilson; it was all tangled and confusing. Heather wasn't ready to try and talk about it. It was nice to know that Jack wouldn't push her, as long as she didn't lie. She could just tell him she didn't want to talk about something.

 _I really don't have to pretend with him, do I?_

Apparently, he could tell if she was upset whether or not she said anything, and he wouldn't push her to discuss it as long as it wasn't something that would put him at risk. Which meant pretending she was okay wasn't necessary. Heather couldn't remember ever not having to pretend with someone. Sure, some people required less pretense than others, but there was never anyone that she could be completely honest with. It was such a _relief._

"Thanks," Heather said. She meant for more than just this moment, but wasn't sure if he realized that. Heather glanced around. "But, um, I really am having a hard time deciding what to bring. I'm not sure what's going to happen to my stuff, or how I'll get it back when this is over, or…" She trailed off, realizing how much of the future was uncertain.

How _would_ she put her life back together when this was over? Would her reputation still be ruined? Would her job be waiting for her, or was she going to have to look for a new one? Would she even be able to find work in Hell's Kitchen, or would she have to move? _Could_ she move? That would take money, and Heather didn't really have money anymore. Or what if this didn't work? What if Wilson was never arrested, what then? She couldn't hide out at Jack's place forever.

"You're starting to panic again."

Jack's words snapped her out of her thoughts. Heather took a deep breath; one hand pressed over her chest to try and slow her racing heart. "A little, yeah. I just…this is _so much._ "

He took a step into her room. "I know. It is." His head turned, seeming to examine the room, and Heather had a fleeting moment of relief that there wasn't anything embarrassing out right now. "If you have anything particularly sentimental, you might want to bring it. Just in case."

"If your house was on fire, what would you save?" Heather mumbled, and he looked her way. She shrugged a little. "It's a game my students play sometimes. Kind of fits."

The corner of his mouth twitched. "I guess it does. I'll leave you to it."

Once he left the room, Heather looked around again, assessing with a slightly different perspective. She was surprised to realize how many of the things in her room she did feel were replaceable. She wasn't sure _how_ she'd manage to replace all of it if she needed to, but that was a problem for Future Heather. Her focus right now was on the things she couldn't stand the thought of losing.

Heather crossed to her dresser, and the small jewelry box on it. She didn't wear much jewelry, and most of what she had was costume anyway. But there was a ring, a gift from her mom when Heather had turned eighteen. Then she went for the scrapbook, the one that Becky had made as gifts for their group, chronicling their adventures through college.

She hesitated over a framed picture of her, Wilson, and her mom. It was from her birthday two years ago, her last birthday before their mom had had to be placed in a home. They'd surprised Heather with dinner and a play, and she'd managed to convince the notoriously camera-shy Wilson to allow a family photo be taken with the promise that she wouldn't post it online.

 _Mom's going to have no idea what's happened to me._

Heather wasn't sure how much of a difference it would actually make in her mom's day-to-day life. Heather tried to visit her fairly regularly, but it was hit or miss if her mom even recognized Heather, or knew how long it had been since Heather's last visit. Maybe this could work in Heather's favor for once, and her mom wouldn't even notice that Heather wasn't visiting anymore.

Heather left the picture where it was, and carried her suitcase back into the living room. There was still room in it, and there were a few more things she wanted to make sure she took. She set the suitcase on her coffee table, and eyed her two bookshelves with longing. She wished there was some way she could bring all of her books with her; Heather hated the thought of losing any of them. Still, when it came down to it, she could eventually replace them. But there were a couple volumes that were special; her well-worn volume of The Lion, The Witch, and The Wardrobe, and a paperback copy of Grimm's Fairytales, both childhood gifts, as well as a few others. She packed them into the suitcase and zipped it up.

Jack had returned to sitting on the barstool while he waited. "All set?" he asked.

"I think so," Heather said, glancing around her apartment one last time. She felt a pang as she realized that this might really be the last time. The chances of this being resolved in the next two weeks seemed slim to none, and once she was evicted, she'd never be able to rent here again.

As she looked around, her coffee machine caught her eye, and a sudden, alarming thought occurred to her. "You do have a coffee maker, right?"

Jack slowly tilted his head. "If I said no, would you actually bring your coffee maker?"

Heather's face heated and she crossed her arms defensively. "I'm about to go into hiding for an undetermined amount of time. I'm not giving up coffee too."

"I have one, yes," Jack said, amusement clear in his voice.

"Okay, good then," Heather said. She bit her lip, trying to think if there was anything else she might need. _Oh!_

She moved to the kitchen, and Jack swiveled on the stool to follow her movement. "Are – are you bringing it anyway?"

"What? No," Heather said. She went for the cabinet above her coffee maker. "But I buy a really good brand of coffee, and it would be a waste to leave it."

"How would you know it's good with the amount of creamer you use?" he asked dryly.

Heather sputtered, caught off guard by the light teasing. "That's – you – you know what? Just for that, you can't have any of it."

He looked amused by her reaction, and in the face of his amusement, Heather considered not following through with the other half of her initial plan. Her hesitation only lasted half a second though, and she spun on her heel and went for her fridge. _It's my favorite, and I'm not leaving it._ When she turned back around with two bottles of creamer in hand, Jack was very obviously trying to hold back a smile. "You're bringing your own creamer."

Heather sniffed, and tried to pretend she wasn't blushing. "Peppermint mocha is my favorite," she grumbled, "and stores are going to stop selling it soon, because apparently it can only be sold around Christmas." It was the whole reason she had the extra bottles in the first place.

He still seemed amused by her actions, but he just nodded. "Okay."

Heather packed up her coffee and creamer in a bag, then went for her rain jacket. The rain had slowed while she was packing, but it hadn't stopped. "Right. I think I'm ready now."

Jack stood from the stool and got her suitcase from the coffee table. "Then we should head out." Heather moved for the door at the same time he went for the window, and both of them stopped when they realized the other was going in the opposite direction.

Heather's flush deepened as she realized that _obviously_ Jack couldn't just walk through her building. "Right. Window. Of course."

He opened the window, set her suitcase outside, then slipped out himself. Heather felt awkward as she climbed out after him; she'd never set foot on her fire escape before. She turned to close the window behind them and paused. This was really it. She was really about to run away and hide for the Lord only knew how long. Once she did this, there was no turning back. She bit her lip, and pushed the window shut.

Jack moved to the stairs leading down. "Careful you don't slip," he told her.

She followed him, trying to keep her steps light on the metal. It still amazed her how Jack could make so little noise while he moved. They made it to the ladder that led down to the alley, and Jack went first. The ladder didn't make it all the way to the ground, but he jumped the last couple feet like it was nothing.

"Is there any way we can lower this thing?" Heather asked, careful not to raise her voice too loud. There probably wouldn't be people around in this weather, but she couldn't be too careful.

"Nope," Jack said. "It's too rusted to lower. Just come down and I'll help you."

Heather was reluctant, but she had to get off the fire escape somehow. She wrapped the straps of the bag over her wrist and gingerly climbed onto the ladder. The metal rungs were wet and slick, and she clung to them grimly as she slowly made her way down. Her feet made it the last rung and she paused.

"You're not far," Jack said. "Just lower yourself, and I'll catch you."

She glanced down; he said it wasn't that far, but the ground looked uncomfortably distant from where she was. Heather took a deep breath. _Don't be a wimp, Heather. You can do this._

Carefully, Heather slid one foot off the ladder and started lowering herself down. She didn't make it far before necessity dictated that she lower her other foot too, and her hands started to slip on the wet rung. Before she could even think to be alarmed, she felt Jack's hands on her hips, slowing her decent and guiding her down. She still stumbled when her feet hit the ground, only managing to stay upright because Jack was standing behind her.

"See? Not so bad."

Heather shot him an unamused look. "Speak for yourself."

He just smiled and let go of her, picking up her suitcase and moving down the alley. "Let's go; we've got a bit of a walk."

She hastily followed after him. He stuck to deserted, dim back alleys, and it wasn't long before Heather was completely turned around. She thought she knew Hell's Kitchen pretty well, but she didn't exactly make wandering through alleyways a frequent event. Jack on the other hand seemed to know exactly where he was going; his steps never faltered or hesitated, even going through areas dim enough that Heather could barely see.

 _I hope we're almost there._

Even with her jacket on, Heather was getting pretty damp, and it was cold on top of it. She hoped the rain wouldn't soak through her suitcase and damage her books. She wished she'd have thought to put them in plastic bags or something to waterproof them.

Jack came to a stop, and Heather almost walked into him, but she managed to catch herself just in time. "This is my building," he said. "I have to go in through the roof, but you can use the front door. This alley will take you to the front. My apartment is on the top floor."

He handed over her suitcase to her, and Heather was a little surprised at the actual weight of it when she took it. Jack hadn't acted like carrying it around was a strain at any point during their walk. "Okay. See you in a minute."

He moved back into the shadows, and Heather lost sight of him almost immediately. The moment she did, her heartrate kicked up, suddenly feeling vulnerable and alone. She walked quickly down the alley, eager to get inside the building and back to safety.

The lobby was deserted, and the elevator empty. The ride up felt frustratingly slow, and when she made it, Heather didn't wait for the doors to open completely before she was stepping out into the hall. She made it to Jack's door then hesitated, uncertain if she should knock, or if he'd have even made it into his apartment yet. She didn't have time to make up her mind, because he opened the door without her knocking.

Heather went in, and Jack quickly closed the door behind her, flipping the lock shut. Heather looked around; his apartment was bigger than hers, though sparsely furnished, with gorgeous exposed brick walls, and wide windows that most New Yorkers would kill for. Though maybe not in this particular apartment, given the flashing digital billboard across the street shown brightly enough that one almost didn't need to turn lights on at all.

She set her suitcase down, and turned towards Jack, uncertain about what she should say or do next. She thought he seemed equally uncertain, though between the dim lighting and the mask, it was hard to be sure. He let out a breath of air. "I guess this is the part where I tell you who I am."

He reached up and tugged off the mask. "My name is – "

" _Matt?"_

He paused, looking taken aback by Heather's sudden exclamation. "…I didn't think you'd remember me," he said.

"Literally running into people isn't the kind of thing I forget," Heather managed to say, still stunned by the revelation of who he actually was. She tried to reconcile the charming man she'd briefly met with everything she'd seen him do in the mask, and couldn't. "Wait, aren't you –?" she abruptly stopped her question, only realizing after it had started to slip out that it might be rude to ask.

"Blind?" he finished for her. "Yeah. I am."

He didn't seem offended, and Heather was completely baffled by this turn of events, so she decided to keep going with it. "Then how…?"

Matt moved into the apartment, tossing his mask onto his table. "Remember how you guessed I have powers? You weren't wrong." He ran a hand through his hair, which was sticking up thanks to the mask he'd been wearing. "There was an accident, when I was nine. I pushed a man out of the way of a crashing truck, and got chemicals splashed in my face. They blinded me, but they also enhanced my other senses."

Heather drifted towards him, fascinated by his story, and reconsidered the things she'd seen him do in light of this new information. "So that's how you knew that cop was in the warehouse? And that the building was surrounded? You could hear them, or something?"

"…That's right," Matt said.

"How do you tell when people are lying?" Heather asked. Enhanced senses sounded incredibly useful, but she wasn't sure how they could lead to that particular skill.

"When someone lies, their heartbeat changes," Matt said. "Breathing too, sometimes. I know what it sounds like."

Heather's lips parted slightly. His hearing was _that_ good? That he could actually listen in on someone's heart? _No wonder he can tell how the people around him are feeling._

"That's amazing," Heather said. "Is it just your hearing, or are your other senses enhanced too?"

His brows furrowed, and he didn't respond immediately, and for a moment Heather worried she might be pushing her boundaries by asking about his abilities. Before she could retract the question, he answered. "The others are enhanced too. I could tell Fisk had been at your place earlier because I could still smell his cologne. And I was able to avoid your bruises because there's a slight temperature variation where the bruises are."

That information only served to make Heather more curious, but a yawn cut her off before she could decide what question to ask next.

"It's late," Matt said. "Let me change and then you can have the bedroom."

"What? Oh, no, I don't want to kick you out of your room," Heather protested.

He was already moving towards the bedroom, and he waved a hand in dismissal. "It's fine. I'll sleep out here easier than you will."

He was probably referring to the billboard that lit up his apartment with flashing colors, but Heather was tired enough that she wasn't sure the light would affect her sleep at all. Matt didn't give her the chance to say so, going into his room and sliding the door shut.

Heather stood where she was awkwardly a moment, then remembered the bag she was holding with her creamer and coffee in it. _Guess I should put these away._

She felt a little like she was intruding when she walked into his kitchen, but she knew she was going to have to get over that feeling. If she was going to be here a while, then she'd need to just get used to being here. She opened the door to the fridge and was surprised to see how organized the contents were. Heather tended to shove food wherever it would fit, but Matt clearly had a system going on. She fit the creamer into an open space on one of the door shelves and hoped she wasn't taking a spot where something else was supposed to go.

Heather shut the fridge then glanced around the kitchen. She spotted his coffee machine and figured that was probably a good area to start looking for where he kept the coffee. She ignored the awkward feelings of discomfort as she looked through the cabinets, and luckily it only took two tries to find the coffee so she could put hers away.

Matt's bedroom door opened, and he walked out now dressed in a t-shirt and sweatpants. "The bedroom is all yours."

She considered trying to protest the arrangement again, but her exhaustion weighed down on her. Heather decided she'd shelve that discussion for tomorrow. They _would_ revisit it though; she refused to kick him out of his room indefinitely.

"Thanks," she said. "Goodnight." Heather got her suitcase and went to his room, sliding the door shut behind her. That left the room much darker than the living room had been, and she fumbled a bit searching for the light switch so she could see. His room was as sparsely furnished as the rest of his apartment. Heather set her suitcase in an out of the way corner before digging through it to get her pajamas and toiletries. She took her time getting ready for bed, noting as she did that the bathroom and bedroom were also particularly organized.

 _I'll have to be careful where I put stuff._ Heather had kept her place decent enough, but the only time anything got properly cleaned or organized was if she was stress cleaning. Matt obviously kept things neater than she tended to, and she didn't want to be an annoying guest.

Her evening routine complete, Heather flipped the lights out and crawled into the bed. _Are…are his sheets silk?_ She rubbed the material between her fingers, and yes, those were definitely silk sheets. An extravagance she wouldn't have expected, given how sparse everything else about Matt's apartment was, and somehow it made her feel guiltier for taking his room, even though he'd been the one to insist.

 _I'll definitely sleep on the couch tomorrow._

But for tonight, she snuggled down under the covers, cocooning herself in the sheets and comforter, and let her heavy eyelids drift closed.

* * *

Matt hesitated outside his bedroom door. He didn't think he'd ever felt awkward about trying to go into his own room before, but despite what Foggy thought, he didn't actually have women sleeping in his bed that often.

 _It's morning. I have a job I need to get ready for. All my things are in there._

He should have thought that through last night, but he hadn't. Or maybe it wouldn't have mattered, since there was only one bathroom in his apartment, and that was also in his room. Based on her breathing, Heather was still sleeping pretty deeply. There was a decent chance she wouldn't wake up when he went in there. Still, if he _did_ accidentally wake her up, he didn't want her to be freaked out by the fact that he'd gone in while she was asleep.

… _Or maybe it wouldn't bother her at all._ Matt kind of assumed it would, because it seemed like the sort of thing that would bother most women. But Heather had continuously surprised him by not reacting to things the way he thought she would. Matt was about ready to give up trying to predict anything when it came to her.

Regardless, he still needed to get ready for work, and hovering outside his bedroom door wasn't going to help with that. He sighed, then slid the door open. Matt moved on silent feet, careful to keep noise to a minimum as he got his clothes and then slipped into the bathroom. Heather didn't stir at all until Matt turned the shower on. He paid attention, hoping she wouldn't be alarmed when she realized he'd been in there while she was asleep.

She wasn't. Her heart stayed slow and steady, and she laid in the bed a minute longer before kicking the covers off and shuffling out of the bedroom and to the kitchen. For once she did act predictably by going ahead and putting the coffee on.

 _Heather's one constant; her love of coffee._

Matt showered and dressed quickly, but by the time he was done and went out in the living room, Heather was sitting at the table sipping on her drink. "Good morning," he said.

"Good morning." She gestured towards the kitchen. "Coffee's ready."

He could tell by the smell that she'd made a pot of her coffee, not his, and he couldn't resist teasing her a little over it. "I thought I wasn't allowed to have your coffee?"

She shrugged. "Yeah, well, you let me have the bed last night, so I guess you've earned it."

"Generous of you," Matt said, pouring himself a cup. He heard her stomach growl. "Scrambled eggs fine for breakfast?"

"Oh, you don't have to," she started, but Matt cut off her protests with a shake of his head.

"I'm cooking for myself anyway. It's just as easy to cook for two."

"Um. Then, sure," she said.

 _She's nervous now._

He couldn't blame her. This wasn't exactly a normal situation, though he was doing his best to act like it was. Matt took sip of the coffee as he walked over to the fridge to get the carton of eggs. "Mm. You were right."

Heather looked over at him. "About what?"

"This is really good coffee."

The comment got a quiet laugh out of her and her shoulders relaxed. "If there's one thing I do know, it's good coffee."

Silence fell over them as Matt got busy fixing their breakfast, but this time it didn't feel uncomfortable. "Want toast?" he offered.

She set her mug down on the table. "Sure. Just tell me where the bread is and I'll fix that."

Matt nodded towards his pantry. "Top shelf."

Heather followed his directions and found the loaf of bread. "Do you want one slice or two?" she asked.

"Two please," Matt replied.

It was a little strange, having someone other than himself moving about in his kitchen. Well, himself or Foggy. Foggy always helped himself to Matt's kitchen when he was over. The benefits of a decade long friendship. Matt supposed he'd get used to it.

"Do you have jelly?" Heather asked.

"Middle shelf in the fridge," he answered.

She went to the fridge and paused a moment before grabbing the jelly. "Hey, um, I was thinking and is there anything I should avoid doing while I'm here? I appreciate you letting me stay, and I'd like to minimize the inconvenience."

Matt tilted his head back like he was thinking. "Try not to throw any wild parties?"

She frowned. "Matt, I'm being serious."

"I know." He moved the frying pan off the hot burner. The eggs were done. He turned to grab plates. "Honestly, Heather, I don't have any big rules for you." Being stuck at his place was going to be hard enough already. Matt didn't want her to feel like she was walking on eggshells the whole time she was there. His response didn't seem to put her at ease though. "Just keep things kind of neat, and try not to let anyone know you're here."

She worried her bottom lip between her teeth and slowly nodded. "Okay. But if I do anything annoying, you'll tell me?"

"I promise," Matt said, scooping the eggs onto plates.

The toast finished cooking, and Matt carried the plates over to her so she could two pieces on each of the plates. Then he carried them to the table, and Heather followed after with the jelly and his cup of coffee. "I'm not sure what time I'll get back from work," Matt said. Hours at the office were unpredictable right now, especially since part of his time would doubtlessly be spent trying to figure out a way to take care of Fisk from the more legal side of things. "Try to figure out if you left anything important, and let me know when I get back. If you did, I can get it for you tonight."

"Oh, thanks," she said. She slathered jelly on her toast.

Matt noted the amount she used, and added a line to his very short list of constants that he knew about her. _Loves coffee, has a sweet tooth._

"Oh!" she said suddenly, and Matt paused.

"Is something wrong?" he asked.

"No," she said. "I mean, I don't think…I just had a thought. You're sense of smell is really sensitive, right? Will my shampoo bother you? I know some shampoo can bother people that aren't sensitive to smells, and I don't mind using something different while I'm here if-"

"Your shampoo is fine," Matt said, cutting off the flow of words. The light vanilla scent wasn't unpleasant, and mostly drowned out by the coffee she was always drinking anyway.

"Good," she said, sounding genuinely relieved.

 _Tack another one to the list of surprises._

Heather had taken the information about what Matt could do much more in stride than he'd expected. No, that wasn't quite right. She hadn't merely taken it in stride. She'd just _accepted_ it, without any sort of reservation or hesitation.

" _That's amazing."_

She'd meant it. And she hadn't made any comment about his abilities being strange, or invasive. He wouldn't have been upset if she had, because Matt knew that what he did – listening to people's hearts, their breathing, monitoring their body temperature, noting the smells that hung around them – all of it _was_ invasive. It was more detail than most people _could_ notice, and it wouldn't be out of line for Heather to be uncomfortable with it.

But she wasn't. And not only was she not uncomfortable, she was going out of her way to make sure she wasn't aggravating him, now that she knew what he could do, and…

Matt didn't know what to make of it.

He ran his thumb over the hands of his watch. It was still a little earlier than he normally left for work, but he decided it was close enough.

"I'd better get going," Matt said, standing.

Heather snagged his plate before he could pick it up. "I'll take care of the dishes."

"Thanks," Matt said. "I'll see you this afternoon."

He listened to her movements as he left the building. It was strange, hearing someone move around in his place when he wasn't there. _Guess I'm going to have to get used to it._


	12. Chapter 12

**Warning:** Just a heads up that towards the end of this chapter, there is a (non graphic) discussion of domestic abuse.

* * *

Karen's footsteps were quick and eager coming into the office. "We _have_ to talk to Heather Fisk."

"Good morning to you too," Foggy said from his place near the coffee machine. He'd been quick to make the coffee that morning, saying he wanted to get it going before Karen could try to poison them again – a harsh but not totally unjustified assessment of Karen's coffee making skills.

"I thought we were just researching her right now," Matt said. It was easier to stay somewhat neutral about Karen bringing up Heather today. Now that Heather was hidden away, Karen wouldn't actually be able to talk to her, which hopefully meant she'd stay off of Fisk's radar for a little longer.

Karen dropped her bag on her desk. "I have been researching her, even after we left the office last night." She dug a sheaf of paper out of her bag.

"That is a lot of paper," Foggy said. "Did you sleep at all last night?"

"Yes, I slept, that's not important," Karen said impatiently.

Matt filed that as a no. Apparently Foggy did too, because he poured another cup of coffee and carried it over to her. "Okay, okay. So, what'd you find?"

Karen took the cup from him and took a sip before replying. "She's a Hell's Kitchen native. Her parents were Bill and Marlene Fisk."

"Were?" Matt asked, catching the past tense.

She set the cup down on her desk and shuffled through the papers. "Yeah. It looks like her father vanished about twenty-five years ago." She separated a couple of the papers and handed them over to Foggy. "He borrowed money from some mafia guy, Don Rigoletto. Bill Fisk couldn't pay Rigoletto back, and then he vanished. They never found a body, so it's unclear if he just ran away, or if Rigoletto actually had him killed. Then, about four years later, Marlene Fisk died. Not sure from what."

Matt frowned; that didn't match what Heather had told him. She'd never said anything one way or another about her father, but Matt distinctly remembered Heather commenting that her mother lived in the area. She hadn't been lying about that, so how had Karen found records of Marlene Fisk's death? Something wasn't adding up.

"Well that is definitely tragic," Foggy said, "but I'm not sure how her being an orphan means we should talk to her."

"I'm getting there!" Karen said. "After her mother's death, all records of Heather Fisk just vanish, no indication of what happened to her. Until suddenly, she's enrolled at NYU."

"That's not necessarily suspicious," Matt said. "She was a minor. Records wouldn't be easy to get a hold of." And possibly nonexistent, if Marlene Fisk was actually alive.

"She probably just moved in with another relative," Foggy said. "That wouldn't leave a big paper trail."

Karen shook her head. "There _aren't_ any relatives. But she was just a kid, _someone_ had to take her in."

 _Guess she didn't find any records of Fisk then._ Matt wasn't surprised by the gap; he hadn't managed to find anything about Wilson Fisk either when he'd gone looking.

"It sounds like you're trying to lead us somewhere, but I'm not following," Foggy said.

"Neither am I," Matt said, crossing his arms over his chest.

Karen heaved a sigh. "Okay, look. We know that her dad had connections to mobsters. We know that Heather Fisk has some kind of connection to the Kingpin, close enough that she thought she'd be safe from retaliation for that article. I think what happened was that after her parents died, the Kingpin took her in for some reason. It would explain a lot; why the Russians kidnapped her in the first place, and why she didn't want to reveal his identity."

Foggy's weight shifted, his heart speeding up slightly as he caught on to Karen's idea. "If you're right, that would probably also mean that she'd know inside information about the Kingpin's operations, even if she isn't actively a part of them."

"Exactly!" Karen said. She turned to Matt. "We need to talk to her."

Matt tilted his head, considering his response. "Even if you're right," he said, "are we just forgetting about the way the media trashed her reputation yesterday? Say you convince her to come forward with information. Who would consider her a credible witness?"

"That's why we don't use her as a witness," Karen said. "We just use her information to track down proof of the Kingpin's identity and his illegal activities."

A frown pulled at Matt's mouth. Karen's logic made sense, given what she knew. Talking to Heather would be the next logical step, if she was there to talk to. But even though Matt knew Heather wasn't at her place anymore, he still wasn't thrilled with the idea of Karen and Foggy going there. There was no way to know if Fisk had noticed Heather's disappearance yet, and he might have people watching Heather's place.

"Matt, I know you don't want us to get hurt," Karen said, noticing his hesitation, "but if we're going to go after Kingpin, there is going to be risk involved."

"I know," Matt grudgingly agreed. That didn't mean he had to be okay with it. "Do you know where she lives?"

"Not yet," Karen said. "I'm still looking for that."

That was good news at least. While they went about their work that day, Matt turned the problem over in his mind, trying to figure out a way to keep Karen and Foggy away from Heather's apartment. When the answer came to him, it was simple.

Karen wanted to know who the kingpin was. Matt Murdock couldn't tell her that, but the Devil of Hell's Kitchen could.

* * *

Cleaning up the breakfast dishes didn't take long, and Heather found herself wondering how she was going to fill her day stuck in Matt's apartment. "Guess I can start by getting out of my pajamas." Heather went into the bedroom and dug through her suitcase for what she needed. She could already tell that tying to live out of the suitcase for however long she was here was going to be kind of a pain.

 _I wonder if Matt would let me use a drawer?_

It'd make Heather's life easier, but she hated to ask. He was already going to ridiculous lengths to help her, so she wanted to minimize the inconvenience to him as much as possible.

Though…he didn't seem to mind? He hadn't hesitated to help her even once since she'd met him, whether that meant rescuing her from mobsters, helping her hide from Wilson, or simply making her breakfast. And he never acted like he resented any of it. Matt just helped her. Like it was the most natural thing in the world for him to do.

 _If I ask for a drawer, I'm pretty sure the answer will be yes._ Heather wasn't sure if that made it easier or harder to ask.

She shook herself out of her thoughts, and scooped up her stuff. Crouching there thinking wasn't going to get her day moving. Heather took her time getting showered and dressed. There was no point in rushing, since she had nowhere to be and no one waiting on her. She did her best to avoid her reflection in the mirror though; the bruises had just started to fade, but were still glaringly noticeable for the most part, and Heather preferred not to look at them.

Once she'd finished dressing and repacking her stuff in her suitcase, Heather bit her lip, trying to decide what would be next. "Guess I could sort of…explore?" The idea of poking around Matt's apartment felt a little uncomfortable, but she needed to know where stuff was, and she'd rather look around on her own than while Matt was home.

She didn't go through his room – that felt too personal – but Heather did poke through the closets in the apartment's main areas. That was how she found the washer and dryer. The detergent caught her eye; it was a brand she didn't recognize. Curiosity pricked at her, and feeling a little silly, Heather impulsively unscrewed the cap so she could sniff. _Unscented._ At least it was to her. Heather wondered if it still had a smell to Matt. _His shampoo is unscented too._ Not that Heather had smelled that, but she'd noticed the label.

Heather frowned as she put the detergent back. "I hope he was telling the truth when he said my shampoo didn't bother him." She wanted to believe he was being honest, but the fact that all his stuff was unscented sort of argued against it.

When she went through the kitchen, she found that it wasn't just the fridge that was well organized; every cabinet and the pantry were also carefully arranged. She also noticed that he didn't have any microwavable or instant foods. "Huh. He actually cooks everything?" How did he have the time to do it?

Her exploration complete, Heather glanced at the clock on the stove and was dismayed to see that it was still only midmorning. She groaned. "This is harder than I thought."

Staying at her home all day wasn't necessarily unusual for Heather, where she was comfortable doing whatever she wanted; despite what Matt had said, she still felt like a guest and wasn't comfortable doing just anything in his home. Plus, she always had the option of leaving her place if she wanted. That wasn't really the case here.

Heather clapped her hands together and spun around on her heel. "I know! I can binge watch something on Netflix!" It would help while away some time, and it wasn't like there was anything else she needed to do. She stopped halfway through the living room though when it suddenly hit her that she didn't know the password to Matt's Wi-Fi.

"Dang it," Heather said, drawing the words out in a whine. So much for that idea. She briefly entertained the idea of calling Matt to ask, but decided that probably wasn't worth bothering him at work.

"Wait…did I bring my cell phone?" Heather brow wrinkled; now that she thought about it, she couldn't remember packing her phone. She hastened to her suitcase and dug through it, but sure enough, her phone wasn't there. Thinking back, Heather thought she'd probably left it on her couch where she'd tossed it after her conversation with Maria.

"Well…maybe it's not all bad that I left it?" Heather mused. She wasn't sure if Wilson had the ability to track people's phones, but she supposed it was possible. Not having her phone was probably for the best.

"I guess I could read." Her fingers brushed over the covers of the books she'd brought, old favorites that she had read many times over. But Heather was pretty sure she'd find it hard to concentrate on them this time.

She groaned and let her head loll back. "No wonder people in movies get bored enough to do those exercise montages." It at least gave them something to do, something that didn't make them think.

Heather considered. "…That might not be a terrible idea."

She'd already been kidnapped once, and she didn't doubt anymore that Wilson would be willing to kidnap her if he thought he had to in order to get her secreted away to whatever place he had planned for her. Not that Wilson should be able to find her, hidden at Matt's place like this, but still. Heather could still remember how easily Vladimir would have managed to kill her, even when he was injured. And while Heather couldn't imagine herself actually fighting anyone, the idea of at least being strong enough to successfully run away held some appeal.

 _It can't hurt to try, at least._

She wandered back into the living room, pondering how to go about this. Heather didn't know much about exercise in general, and hadn't done it on a consistent basis since high school PE. Whatever she did, it couldn't be noisy, because Matt's neighbors weren't supposed to know anyone was there during the day.

"Push-ups, I guess?" she mumbled. "Exercise montages always include those, so…"

Heather felt a little silly, getting down on the floor, but consoled herself with the knowledge that no one was there to see her. She wasn't sure how many push-ups she should do for a proper workout, and figured she'd just go until her arms got tired. Only it turned out that push-ups were much harder than she remembered from her high school days, and Heather only managed about four and a half before her arms gave out and she flopped down on her stomach.

"Okay," she groaned. "That's pathetic."

Her mind flicked back to Matt, and the things she'd seen him do; fighting and beating four grown men at once, carrying Vladimir, even just carrying her suitcase way further than she'd have been able to. _And he makes it all look easy_ , she thought. Heather was doubly glad that he wasn't around to observe just how helpless she really was.

"Well I can't get any worse," Heather said to herself, "so I can only get better."

She decided twenty was a good number to shoot for, since push-ups were so hard for her. It took forever; she kept having to pause and let her arms rest. Eventually she hit her goal, and the moment she did she let herself collapse to the floor. Heather's arms felt rather like noodles, and would no doubt be sore in the morning, but Heather smiled anyway, pleased that she'd managed it.

"Time for a water break," Heather decided. "Then I keep going."

She did sit-ups, squats, and any other quiet exercise that she could think of. By the time she was done, her stomach was growling and she'd worked up a sweat. She frowned and tugged at the hem of her shirt. "I should have brought more clothes." She hadn't exactly planned for two outfits a day when she'd packed.

 _I could ask Matt to bring me more…_

He'd told her if she realized she needed anything else to let him know and he'd get it for her, but Heather shook her head, dismissing the idea. He'd surely ask why she needed more clothes, and since Heather couldn't lie to him, she'd have to admit the truth, and she wasn't ready to tell Matt about her attempts at exercising yet. She'd just have to do laundry more frequently then she'd initially planned. Which, really, was just fine. It wasn't like she had much else to do.

Heather kept her second shower of the day quicker, and once she was clean and had straightened up her stuff, she made herself a simple lunch. While putting her sandwich together, Heather was struck with an idea. "I could make dinner!"

Matt obviously tended to cook from scratch, given what he kept in his kitchen, which took time. If Heather cooked instead, she could maybe be a little helpful, and feel a little less like dead weight. Heather was too pleased by the prospect to sit and eat, so she carried her sandwich with her as she looked through the fridge and pantry, trying to plan.

 _I can't look up recipes online, so it's got to be something I have memorized._

That narrowed her options somewhat. Heather didn't really do a lot of cooking, but there were a few dishes that she could make from memory. "He's got everything for chicken and rice soup. I can do that."

There was a brief moment of hesitation as it occurred to her that she didn't know if Matt actually liked chicken and rice soup, but she did her best to dismiss the concern. _He has all the ingredients, so that's got to be a good sign._ The chance to help him somehow, even in something this small, was too good to pass up.

* * *

"Please," Norris begged from his place tied to a chair, "please don't do this."

Wesley didn't even bother looking up from his phone. Norris had been as good as dead from the moment he'd failed to keep Heather safe from the Russians. His attempt to flee the area had been as predictable as it had been pointless. Of course Wilson had ordered him captured from the moment he'd realized that Norris wasn't dead. "Your fate is quite out of my hands."

The manner of Norris's death would be up to Wilson, once he arrived at the warehouse. If Norris had wanted a say in it, he should have taken matters into his own hands.

"But – but she's okay!" Norris stammered, desperation rolling from him.

Wesley paused, finger hovering over his phone screen as he now looked over at Norris. "Ms. Fisk was _taken._ She was injured, and her life threatened. It was your job to prevent that."

"There were too many of them," Norris said. "No one could have stopped them! Then when the Devil showed up – "

" _What?"_

Norris stuttered to a halt.

Wesley took a breath, trying to stay calm. "The Devil of Hell's Kitchen _knows where Ms. Fisk lives?_ "

Norris didn't answer, but the way his face paled said enough. Wesley spun on his heel and left the room, already dialing Heather's current protection detail. Picket answered on the first ring.

"Sir?"

"I need you to check on Ms. Fisk," Wesley ordered.

"She hasn't left the building, sir," Picket replied. "We've been sending the hourly updates – "

"I know what you've sent me!" Wesley snapped. "Check on her _in person!_ We need eyes on her! I don't care what excuse you use to get her to open the door. Once you've confirmed she's still there, call me."

"Yes, sir."

Wesley paced the hall as he waited for Picket to call him. They'd known that the Devil of Hell's Kitchen intended to use Heather against Wilson, but they hadn't realized he knew where she lived. If they had, Wesley would never have recommended giving Heather time to adjust to the idea of leaving the area. He would simply have recommended moving her.

The minutes felt like hours as they dragged by. Wesley glanced at his watch. It was taking entirely too long for Picket to call him back.

The moment his phone started ringing, Wesley hit the button to answer. "Well?"

"She's gone, sir." Wesley suddenly found it hard to breathe. Before he could recover himself, Picket kept talking. "There's no signs of a struggle, and some of her stuff seems to be missing. Her phone is still here. Based on the messages she's got, it looks like she told her friends she was going out of town, but didn't give a location. They seem to be worried that she's not responding to their messages. Her window is unlocked. That must be how she left."

 _He took her._

He must have. Heather wouldn't have run on her own, any more than she'd have put out that article on her own. The Devil of Hell's Kitchen was pulling her strings, using Heather to get to Wilson.

And worst of all, it would work. Once Wilson knew that Heather was missing, she would become his priority. At other times, that might not matter so much, but this was horrible timing. Given the recent troubles they'd been having, their allies would not approve of Wilson's distraction.

Wesley hung up the phone, his mind scrambling to find a solution. There weren't any good ones. They had no idea who the Devil of Hell's Kitchen was, and so there was no way for them to find him or Heather. He could certainly have people scouring the city for Heather, but if she was holed up somewhere, finding her wouldn't be easy. Even worse, if she had already left the city, finding her might be near impossible.

 _This wasn't supposed to happen._

Everything had been falling apart or becoming needlessly complicated, and it was all that damned vigilante's fault.

Wesley slipped the phone back into his coat pocket and took a steadying breath, trying to keep his emotions under control. He could be angry about this later. Right now, he needed to figure out how he was going to explain it to Wilson.

* * *

It was still strange, hearing movement in his apartment as he rode the elevator up to his floor. Matt wasn't used to having someone waiting for him when he came home. He couldn't help but focus in, trying to see what she was up to.

She had music playing, though she'd kept the volume low enough that the neighbors wouldn't notice it. Matt didn't recognize the song, but Heather hummed along with it as she moved about the kitchen. _She's…making soup?_ Matt wasn't sure what he'd expected to find when he came home, but it hadn't really been that.

Matt unlocked his door, and Heather started, nearly dropping the ladle she was using in the pot. "It's just me," Matt called out as he closed the door behind him.

"Right, yep," she said. He wondered for a moment if Heather had always startled this easily, or if it was because of what she had just been through.

 _Considering how she reacted those times she bumped into me, I'm leaning towards that's just how she is._ Matt shrugged his suit jacket off as he walked into the living room, glad to be able to dress down after work.

"Um, dinner is almost ready," Heather said, gesturing towards the pot on the stove. "I hope you like chicken and rice soup?"

"I do," Matt said. He draped his jacket over the back of the couch and started unknotting his tie. "Thanks for cooking; it smells good."

"Oh, well, it's no problem," Heather said, turning back towards the pot and stirring the soup. "Hopefully it tastes good too."

"I'm sure it will," Matt said. He made a mental note to tell her it was, regardless of the actual taste. Her heart rate and breathing had suddenly altered slightly, indicating that she was nervous. It was kind of sweet that she had decided to fix something for dinner, and he didn't want to make her feel bad for trying to be helpful.

Matt went ahead and got the bowls and spoons since Heather was busy with the soup. "Were you alright here today?" he asked.

"It was fine," Heather said. "It just felt a little long." She paused for a moment then added, "I was wondering if I could have your Wi-Fi password? Netflix would help pass the time."

And give her something to focus on other than stewing about her situation, which she didn't say, but Matt could guess. "Sure," Matt agreed. "Sorry I didn't think about that."

"It's fine, no worries," Heather said. "Soup is ready."

Sitting down to dinner with her felt just as strange as breakfast had that morning. Not unpleasant, but definitely different. As it turned out, the soup actually was good, and Matt was relieved that he didn't need to pretend to like it.

"So…how was work?" Heather asked as they ate.

Matt didn't answer her immediately. The question was innocent enough, and she was probably just trying to make small talk, but it was not going to lead to comfortable dinner conversation.

"Work was fine," he finally settled on for his opening. "But some things came up that we should talk about."

She tensed at his words, but slowly nodded. "Okay."

"The other day, I found out that my coworkers – Foggy and Karen – have been investigating Fisk," Matt said. Her heart rate picked up, and her breathing hitched, but she didn't try to say anything. "They've been working with Ben Urich. Turns out that Urich figured out you must have some kind of close connection to the Kingpin. They think you're a lead in figuring out who he is, and maybe the key to putting him in jail. They wanted to talk to you after that article came out, but I talked them out of it."

Heather wasn't pretending to try and eat her dinner at this point. She'd clasped her hands in her lap while he talked, her shoulders curling in defensively. "Oh."

"They don't know you're staying with me," Matt said, "and they haven't been able to find anything about Fisk, but…Karen has been researching you, to see if she could find connections that would lead us to the Kingpin. Some of what she found brought up questions."

She didn't respond immediately, and Matt didn't push. Not yet. Heather was already skittish and uncomfortable, and Matt didn't want to make the conversation harder than it needed to be.

Heather bit her lip. Started to say something. Stopped. Then, "What did she find?"

Matt nudged the bowl out of his was so he could rest his arms on the table. "Your parents were Bill and Marlene Fisk. She found records that your father went missing after –" He stopped abruptly. Heather had flinched at the word 'missing', sucking in a quiet breath that someone other than Matt probably wouldn't have noticed.

"He's not missing, is he?"

She went from having her hands clenched in her lap to curling her arms around her torso. Heather bit her lip again and started to look away before catching herself and facing him. "The official status is presumed dead."

 _She's actually trying to do this right now?_ Trying to hide information from him, pretend she didn't know, even though she understood perfectly well that Matt would be able to tell she was hiding things? Matt wasn't amused by her reticence, and it must have shown on his face, because she wilted.

"It won't help," she whispered. "You can't prove any of it."

"Tell me anyway," Matt said. He wasn't nearly as convinced as she seemed to be that the information wouldn't help.

She didn't say anything. For a minute, the only sounds were her breathing, her heart, and the soft music she'd left playing in the background. When Heather finally did speak, the words came slowly, not much more than a whisper.

"I don't actually remember him," she said. "I was only two when…when it all…" She faltered for a moment, then kept talking. "I used to try and ask Mom and Wilson about him, but they never wanted to tell me anything. They'd just say we were better off without him and to leave it at that. Eventually I quit asking."

She shifted in her seat, a hand rubbing her arm. "But then, um. There was a night, when I was about ten, I think. It was just me and Mom at home, and she had gotten drunk. Way more than she usually did. And I got the idea that if I asked her about Dad while she was drunk, that maybe she'd answer, and um. She did."

There was a hitch in her voice at the end of that sentence, and Matt had a sudden, sinking feeling that Heather had learned far more about Bill Fisk that night than she'd bargained for.

"Mom said…she said he was a cruel man. Unlucky, too. Only anytime something went wrong, he somehow made it her fault and he'd. He'd take it out on her. Wilson too, sometimes. But usually her. He'd make Wilson sit in the corner and stare at the wall when he hurt her."

She stopped and swallowed. Matt didn't say anything, letting her take the moment she needed to collect herself.

"Eventually, Dad decided to try running for council. That's why he borrowed money from some mobster, to fund his campaign. Only he lost anyway. And of course, he blamed Mom. She said – she said that we were all in the living room, and I guess the yelling scared me or something, because she said I started crying. Dad yelled at me to stop, but I was two, so that just made it worse. She said he threw a vase at me. He missed, but um. Apparently, it worked to shut me up."

Matt had to work to keep his expression neutral, and he almost wished he hadn't pushed Heather to talk about this at all.

"It was too much for Wilson though. She said when Dad turned around, Wilson grabbed a hammer and." She stopped, and Matt could smell the salty tang that meant her eyes had filled with tears. "He was – he was only twelve. Mom helped him cover it up. She knew people would assume Dad's disappearance had something to do with the mob, so. So they cut him up and dumped the pieces in the river and never talked about it again."

At least not until a ten-year-old Heather had asked questions at the right – or wrong, depending on your point of view – time. Matt couldn't even imagine how awful it would have been for a kid to hear this story about their family. It was no wonder she'd never asked questions about what Fisk did.

And Matt hated to keep pressing, he did. But this could be an in, a way to get to Fisk. "Karen found records that your mother died when you were six." Based on what Heather had just told him, it sounded like those records were fake.

Heather started. "What? No, she's still alive, she's…" Her voice trailed off. "When I was six, she married her second husband."

Matt nodded slightly. "She changed her name?"

"Yeah."

"Makes a good point to fake someone's death," he said, keeping his voice neutral. Fisk had probably done it to keep his mother hidden from his enemies. But he wouldn't have been able to do the same for Heather, not unless Marlene's husband had adopted her, which clearly hadn't happened.

He wasn't sure how to phrase the next question, but he had to ask. "Do you think…would your mother be willing to talk about what Fisk did?"

"No." Her voice was flat, and surprisingly firm. "She wouldn't. I don't know what or how much she ever knew about Wilson's work, but she'd never turn on him. And even if by some miracle you convinced her, I doubt she'd be an effective witness."

Matt frowned. "What do you mean?"

Heather shrugged. Her whole body was still tense. "She lives in a hospice facility. The best Wilson's money can buy. She has Alzheimer's. It's pretty bad at this point. Sometimes when I visit, she doesn't know me."

And there went that hope. If Marlene Fisk – or whatever last name she went by now – would be willing to testify against him, Matt could make the case that Fisk was guilty of murdering his father. But with her illness, it'd be all too easy for Fisk's lawyers to argue that she didn't know what she was talking about, and Heather's testimony wouldn't amount to anything either, because it was a story her mother had told her while she was drunk some seventeen or so years ago.

Frustration ate at him. _Every damn time._ Every time he thought he was starting to make a little progress, that he might find a way start chipping at Fisk's empire, something happened to make it useless. _There has to be a way to get to him._

Matt wasn't completely out of leads. There was still Owlsley, assuming the man hadn't gone to ground after Matt's failed attempt to get a hold of him. There were the two office addresses that Heather had given him, and James Wesley, if Matt could track him down. But all of those options were going to take time, and the longer this dragged out, the more people Fisk would hurt.

"Was there anything else?" Heather asked. There was an almost brittle edge to her voice.

"No," Matt said.

As soon as the word was out of his mouth she stood, picking up her bowl and moving into the kitchen. The bowl was still half full, but Matt guessed the conversation had probably killed her appetite. Guilt pricked at him. He'd needed to ask the questions, but he hated that they'd hurt her.

Matt picked up his own dishes and carried them into the kitchen as well. Heather didn't say anything. She was getting Tupperware for the leftover soup, moving with a surety that told Matt she'd been poking around the kitchen at some point. He set his dishes in the sink and paused.

He should walk away. He had things to do tonight, and he needed to get ready to go out, and Heather wasn't exactly asking for his help. But then, she never asked for help, did she? She hadn't called for help the night the mugger had attacked her, or at any point in the night when Vladimir had kidnapped her. She hadn't asked for help before talking to Ben Urich, or when Fisk had threatened her afterwards.

Matt knew Heather was hurting, and it was partly his fault, and he couldn't walk away from her without at least _trying_ to make up for it. He turned from the sink; Heather had her back to him, closing the lid of the Tupperware.

"Heather."

Her hands stilled when he said her name, but she didn't turn to look at him.

"I'm sorry."

Sorry for what she'd been through as a kid, even if she didn't remember it. Sorry for how and when she'd found out the truth about her father. Sorry he'd had to ask those questions and bring back those hurtful memories. Sorry that there wasn't really a way to fix what was happening to her.

One of her hands came up and pressed over her mouth, and her chest hitched in a way that meant she was trying to hold back a sob. Matt took a step towards her, one hand reaching out, but he hesitated, uncertain if she'd appreciate the gesture or be offended. It caught him by surprise when she suddenly spun around and fell into him, her hands clinging to his shirt and burying her face in his chest. Matt let his arms settle around her, but carefully, mindful of her bruises.

Her tears were mostly quiet tonight, but she was trembling, so Matt held her, willing to stay as long as she needed him to. Slowly, her breathing settled, the trembling came to a stop, and the tension seeped from her limbs. Her grip on his shirt loosened, and Matt finally let go of her as she stepped back. "Thanks," she mumbled, brushing at her eyes. "Um. I guess you probably need to get to your other job."

A part of him was still somewhat reluctant to walk away from her. But Heather was right.

"Yeah," Matt sighed. "I do."

* * *

 **AN:** Thanks so much for all the support y'all have given this fic! Life has been pretty hectic (I've moved since I posted the last chapter, and that's been a lot) but hopefully things will settle a little now. Your support and comments have been very much appreciated. Let me know what you think of this chapter!


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